



















LORD KILGOBBIN. 


BY 

CHARLES LEVER. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. J. WHEELER. 



' > ) 

> , > 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY". 


1906 . 



Copyright, 1895, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 


♦ r 


SHntticrsttg ^^rrss: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 




r* 


TO 

THE MEMORY OF ONE 

WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP MADE THE HAPPINESS OF A LONG LIFE, 
AND WHOSE LOSS HAS LEFT ME HELPLESS, 

31 30£l3icate Mork, 


WRITTEN IN BREAKING HEALTH AND BROKEN SPIRITS. 

THE TASK, THAT ONCE WAS MY JOY AND MY PRIDE, I HAVE LIVED TO FIND 

ASSOCIATED WITH MY SORROW : 

IT IS NOT, THEN, WITHOUT A CAUSE I SAY, 

1 HOPE THIS EFFORT MAY BE MY LAST. 


CHARLES LEVER. 


Trieste, January 20, 1872. 




CONTENTS. 

♦ 

Chapter Page 

I. Kilgobbix Castle 1 

II. The Prince Kostalergi 10 

III. “ The Chums ” 21 

IV. At “ Trinity ” 30 

V. Home Life at the Castle ....... 40 

VI. The “Blue Goat” 49 

VII. The Cousins 59 

VIII. Showing how Friends may differ .... 65 

IX. A Drive through a Bog 70 

X. The Search for Arms 78 

XI. What the Papers said of it 92 

XII. The Journey to the Country ...... 99 

XIII. A Sick-Room 105 

XIV. At Dinner 113 

XV. In the Garden at Dusk 123 

XVI. The Two “Kearneys ” 130 

XVII. Dick’s Revery 138 

XVIII. Mathew Kearney’s “ Study ” 145 

XIX. An Unwelcome Visit 151 

XX. A Domestic Discussion 156 

XXI. A Small Dinner-Party 161 

XXII. A Confidential Talk 171 

XX I II. A Haphazard Viceroy 181 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

XXIV. Two Friends at Breakfast 18G 

XXV. Atlee’s Embarrassments 194 

XXVI. Dick Kearney’s Chambers 199 

XXVII. A Crafty Counsellor 209 

XXVIII. “On the Leads” 214 

XXIX. On a Visit at Kilgobbin 219 

XXX. The Moate Station 227 

XXXI. How THE “ Goats ” revolted 232 

XXXII. An Unlooked-for Pleasure 239 

XXXIII. Plmnuddm Castle, North AVales . . . 246 

XXXIV. At Tea-Time 252 

XXXA^. A Drive at Sunrise 25 7 

XXXAH. The Excursion 266 

XXXA^II. The Return 281 

XXXAHII. “O’Shea’s Barn” 285 

XXXIX. An Early Gallop 294 

XL. Old Memories 300 

XLI. Two Familiar Epistles 305 

XLII. An Evening in the Drawing-Room . . . 3io 

XLIII. Some Night-Thoughts 318 

XLIV. The Head Constable 326 

XLV. Some Irishries 331 

XL VI. Sage Advice 33G 

XLVII. Reproof 

XLVHI. How Men in Office make Love .... 347 

XLIX. A Cup of Tea 

L. Cross Purposes 302 

LI. Awakenings 

LH. “A Chance Agreement” 370 

LIH. “ A Scrape ” 

LIV. “ How IT BEFELL ” 399 

LV. Two J. P.’s 

LVI. Before the Door 404 


CONTENTS. ix 

Chapter 

LVII, A Doctor 4io 

LVIII. In Turkey 415 

LIX. A Letter-Bag 422 

LX. “A Defeat” 431 

LXL A “ Change of Front ” 438 

LXII. With a Pasha 442 

LXIIL Atlee on his Travels 446 

LXIV. Greek meets Greek 453 

LXV. “In Town” 464 

LXVI. Atlee's Message 471 

LXVII.^ Walpole Alone 477 

LXVIIL Thoughts on Marriage 482 

LXIX. At Kilgobbin Castle 487 

LXX. Atlee’s Return 492 

LXXI, The Drive 503 

LXXII. The Saunter in Town 509 

LXXIII. A Darkened Room 512 

LXXIV. An Angry Colloquy 517 

LXXV. Mathew Kearney’s Reflections .... 521 

LXXVI. Very Confidential Conversation . . . 528 

LXXVII. Two Young Ladies on Matrimony . . . 534 

LXXVIII. A Miserable JMorning 542 

LXXIX. Pleasant Congratulations 552 

LXXX. A Xew Arrival 562 

LXXXI. An Unlooked-for Correspondent . . . 570 

LXXXII. The Breakfast-Room 576 

LXXXIII. The Garden by Moonlight 582 

LXXXIV. Xext Morning 596 

LXXXV. The End 602 




ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Charles Lever Frontispiece 


0n'gmal ©ratorngs bg IE. 3 , Mtieelcr. 

He leaned his Head down and rested it on her 


Shoulder Page 90 

A Small Dinner Party 164 

She held out her Hand ; he bent over and kissed it 

RAPTUROUSLY 280 

Peter Gill stood before him 396 



.y-'. 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


♦ 


CHAPTER I. 

KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 

Some one has said that almost all that Ireland possesses of 
picturesque beauty is to be found on, or in the immediate 
neighborhood of, the seaboard ; and if we except some brief 
patches of river scenery on the “ Nore ” and the “ Black- 
water,” and a part of Lough Erne, the assertion is not 
devoid of truth. The dreary expanse called the Bog of 
Allen, which occupies a high table-land in the centre of the 
island, stretches away for miles flat, sad-colored, and mono- 
tonous, fissured in every direction by channels of dark- 
tinted water, in which the very fish take the same sad color. 
This tract is almost without trace of habitation, save where, 
at distant intervals, utter destitution has raised a mud- 
hovel undistinguishable from tlie hillocks of turf around it. 

Fringing this broad waste, little patches of cultivation are 
to be seen : small potato-gardens, as they are called, or a 
few roods of oats, green even in the late autumn ; but, 
strangely enough, with nothing to show where the humble 
tiller of the soil was living, nor, often, any visible road to 
these isolated spots of culture. Gradually, however, — but 
very gradually, — the prospect brightens. Fields with en- 
closures, and a cabin or two, are to be met with ; a solitary 
tree, generally an ash, will be seen ; some rude instrument 
of husbandry, or an ass-cart, will show that we are emerging 
from the region of complete destitution and approaching a 
land of at least struggling civilization. At last, and by a 
transition that is not always easy to mark, the scene glides 

1 


2 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


into those rich pasture-lands and well-tilled farms that form 
the wealth of the Midland Counties. Gentlern'en’s seats 
and waving plantations succeed, and we are in a country of 
comfort and abundance. 

On this border-land between fertility and destitution, and 
on a tract which had probably once been part of the Dog 
itself, there stood — there stands still — a short, square 
tower, battlemented at top, and surmounted with a pointed 
roof, which seems to grow out of a cluster of farm-build- 
ings, so surrounded is its base by roofs of thatch and slates. 
Incongruous, vulgar, and ugly in every wa}q the old keep 
appears to look down on them — time-worn and battered as 
it is — as might a reduced gentleman regard the unworthy 
associates with which an altered fortune had linked him. 
This is all that remains of Kilgobbin Castle. 

In the guide-books we read that it was once a place of 
strength and importance, and that Hugh de Lacy — the same 
bold knight “ who had won all Ireland for the English from 
the Shannon to the sea ” — had taken this castle from a 
native chieftain called Neal O’Caharney, whose family he 
had slain, all save one ; and then it adds : “ Sir Hugh came 
one day, with three Englishmen, that he might show them 
the castle, when there came to him a youth of the men of 
Meath — a certain Gilla Naher O’Mahey, foster-brother of 
O’Caharney himself — with his battle-axe concealed beneath 
his cloak, and while De Lacy was reading the petition he 
gave him, he dealt him such a blow that his head flew off 
many yards away, both head and body being afterwards 
buried in the ditch of the castle.” 

The annals of Kilronan further relate that the O’Caharneys 
became adherents of the English — dropping their Irish 
designation, and calling themselves Kearney; and in this 
way were restored to a part of the lands and the Castle of 
Kilgobbin — “by favor of which act of grace,” says the 
Chronicle, “ they were bound to raise a becoming monument 
over the brave knight Hugh de Lacy whom their kinsman 
had so treacherously slain ; but they did no more of this than 
one large stone of granite, and no inscription thereon : thus 
showing that at all times, and with all men, the O’Caharneys 
were false knaves and untrue to their word.” 


KILGGBBIN CASTLE. 


3 


In later times, again, the Kearneys returned to the old 
faith of their fathers and followed the fortunes of King 
James; one of them, Michael O’Kearney, having acted as 
aide-de-camp at the “Boyne,” and conducted the King to 
Kilgobbin, where he passed the night after the defeat, and, 
as the tradition records, held a court the next morning, at 
which he thanked the owner of the castle for his hospitality, 
and created him on the spot a viscount by the style and title 
of Lord Kilgobbin. 

It is needless to say that the newly created noble saw 
good reason to keep his elevation to himself. They were 
somewhat critical times just then for the adherents of the 
lost cause, and the followers of King William were keen at 
scenting out any disloyalty that might be turned to good 
account by a confiscation. The Kearneys, however, were 
prudent. They entertained a Dutch officer. Van Straaten, 
on King William’s staff, and gave such valuable information 
besides as to the condition of the country that no suspicions 
of disloyalty attached to them. 

To these succeeded more peaceful times, during which the 
Kearneys were more engaged in endeavoring to reconstruct 
the fallen condition of their fortunes than in political in- 
trigue. Indeed a very small portion of the original estate 
now remained to them, and of what once had produced 
above four thousand a year, there was left a property 
barely worth eight hundred. 

The present owner, with whose fortunes we are more im- 
mediately concerned, was a widower. Mathew Kearney’s 
family consisted of a son and a daughter ; the former about 
two-and-twenty, the latter four years younger, though to all 
appearance there did not seem a year between them. 

Mathew Kearney himself was a man of about fifty-four or 
fifty-six; hale, handsome, and powerful; his snow-white 
hair and bright complexion, with his full gray eyes and reg- 
ular teeth, giving him an air of genial cordiality at first 
sight which was fully confirmed by further acquaintance. 
So lono- as the world went well with him, Mathew seemed to 
enjoy life thoroughly, and even its rubs he bore with an 
easy jocularity that showed what a stout heart he could o[)- 
pose to fortune. A long minority had provided him with a 


4 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


considerable sum on his coming of age, but he spent it freely, 
and when it was exhausted continued to live on at the same 
rate as before, till at last, as creditors grew pressing, and 
mortgages threatened foreclosure, he saw himself reduced to 
something less than one fifth of his former outlay ; and 
though he seemed to address himself to the task with a bold 
spirit and a resolute mind, the old habits were too deeply 
rooted to be eradicated, and the pleasant companionship of 
his equals, his life at the club in Dublin, his joyous convivi- 
ality, no longer possible, he suffered himself to descend to 
an inferior rank, and sought his associates amongst humbler 
men, whose flattering reception of him soon reconciled him 
to his fallen condition. His companions were now the small 
farmers of the neighborhood and the shopkeepers in the ad- 
joining town of Moate, to whose habits and modes of 
thought and expression he gradually conformed, till it be- 
came positively irksome to himself to keep the company of 
his equals. AVhether, however, it was that age had breached 
the stronghold of his good spirits, or that conscience rebuked 
him for having derogated from his station, certain it is that 
all his buoyancy failed him when away from society, and 
that in the quietness of his home he was depressed and dis- 
pirited to a degree ; and to that genial temper, which once 
he could count on against every reverse that befell him, 
there now succeeded an irritable, peevish spirit, that led 
him to attribute every annoyance he met with to some fault 
or shortcoming of others. 

By his neighbors in the town and by his tenantry he was 
always addressed as “My Lord,” and treated with all the 
deference that pertained to such difference of station. By 
the gentry, however, when at rare occasions he met them, 
he was known as Mr. Kearney ; and in the village post- 
office the letters with the name Mathew Kearney, hlsq., were 
perpetual reminders of what rank was accorded him by that 
wider section of the world that lived beyond the shadow of 
Kilgobbin Castle. 

Perhaps the impossible task of serving two masters is 
never more palpably displayed than when the attempt 
attaches to a divided identity, — when a man tries to be 
himself in two distinct parts in life, without the slightest 


KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 


5 


misgiving of hypocrisy while doing so. Mathew Kearney 
not only did not assume any pretension to nobility amongst 
his equals, but he would have felt that any reference to his 
title from one of them would have been an impertinence, 
and an impertinence to be resented ; while, at the same 
time, had a shopkeeper of Moate, or one of the tenants, 
addressed him as other than “ My Lord” he would not have 
deigned him a notice. 

Strangely enough, this divided allegiance did not merely 
prevail with the outer world, it actually penetrated within 
his walls. By his son, Richard Kearney, he was always 
called “My Lord;” while Kate as persistently addressed 
and spoke of him as Papa. Nor w’as this difference without 
signification as to their separate natures and tempers. 

Had Mathew Kearney contrived to divide the two parts of 
his nature, and bequeathed all his pride, his vanity, and his 
pretensions to his son, while he gave his light-heartedness, 
his buoyancy, and kindliness to his daughter, the partition 
could not have been more perfect. Richard Kearney was 
full of an insolent pride of birth. Contrasting the position 
of his father with that held by his grandfather, he resented 
the downfall as the act of a dominant faction, eager to out- 
rage the old race and the old religion of Ireland. Kate took 
a very different view of their condition. She clung, indeed, 
to the notion of their good blood ; but as a thing that might 
assuage many of the pangs of adverse fortune, not increase 
nor embitter them; and, “if we are ever to emerge,” 
thought she, “ from this poor state, we shall meet our class 
without any of the shame of a mushroom origin. It will be 
a restoration, and not a new elevation.” She was a fine, 
handsome, fearless girl, whom many said ought to have 
been a boy ; but this was rather intended as a covert slight 
on the narrower nature and peevish temperament of her 
brother, — another way, indeed, of saying that they should 
have exchanged conditions. 

The listless indolence of her father’s life, and the almost 
complete absence from home of her brother, who was pursu- 
ing his studies at the Dublin University, had given over to 
her charge not only the household, but no small share of the 
management of the estate, — all, in fact, that an old land 


6 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


steward, a certain Peter Gill, would permit her to exercise ; 
for Peter was a very absolute and despotic Grand Vizier, and 
if it bad not been that he could neither read nor write, it 
would have been utterly impossible to have wu’ested from 
him a particle of power over the property. This happy 
defect in his education — happy so far as Kate’s rule was 
concerned — gave her the one claim she could prefer to 
any superiority over him, and his obstinacy could never be 
eft'ectually overcome, except by confronting him with a 
written document or a column of figures. Before these, 
indeed, he would stand crestfallen and abashed. Some 
strange terror seemed to possess him as to the peril of 
opposing himself to such inscrutable testimony, — a fear, 
be it said, he never felt in contesting an oral witness. 

Peter had one resource, however, and I am not sure that 
a similar stronghold has not secured the power of greater 
men and in higher functions. Peter’s sway was of so varied 
and complicated a kind ; the duties he discharged were so 
various, manifold, and conflicting; the measures he took 
with the people, whose destinies were committed to him, 
were so thoroughly devised, by reference to the peculiar 
condition of each man, what he could do or bear or 
submit to, and not by any sense of justice, — that a sort 
of government grew up over the property full of hitches, 
contingencies, and compensations, and of which none but 
he who had invented the machinery could possibly pretend 
to the direction. The estate being, to use his own words, 
‘‘ so like the old coach-harness, so full of knots, splices, and 
entanglements, there was not another man in Ireland could 
make it work ; and if another were to try it, it would all 
come to pieces in his hands.” 

Kate was shrewd enough to see this ; and in the same way 
that she liad admiringly watched Peter as he knotted a trace 
here and supplemented a strap there, strengthening a weak 
point, and providing for casualties even the least likely, she 
saw him dealing with the tenantry on the property ; and in 
the same spirit that he made allowance for sickness here and 
misfortune there, he would be as prompt to screw up a lagging 
tenant to the last penny, and secure the landlord in the share 
of any season of prosperity. 


KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 


7 


Had the GoverDuient Commissioner, sent to report on the 
state of land tenure in Ireland, confined himself to a visit to 
the estate of Lord Kilgobbin, — for so we like to call him, — 
it is just possible that the Cabinet would have found the task 
of legislation even more dililcult than they have already 
admitted it to be. 

First of all, not a tenant on the estate had any certain 
knowledge of how much laud he held. There had been no 
survey of the property for years. “ It will be made up to 
3 "Ou,” was Gill’s phrase about eveiything. “What matters 
if you have an acre more or an acre less?” Neither had 
any one a lease, or, indeed, a writing of any kind. Gill 
settled that on the 25th March and 25th September a cer- 
tain sum was to be forthcoming, and that was all. When 
the Lord wanted them they were always to give him a 
hand, which often meant with their carts and horses, es- 
pecially in harvest time. Not that they were a hard- 
worked or hard-working population : they took life veiy 
eas}^, seeing that b}^ no possible exertion could the^" mate- 
rially better themselves ; and even when they hunted a 
neighbor’s cow out of their wheat, they would execute the 
eviction with a lazy indolence and sluggishness that took 
away from the act all semblance of ungenerousuess. 

They were very poor, their hovels were wretched, their 
clothes ragged, and their food scanty ; but, with all that, 
they were not discontented, and very far from unhappy. 
There was no prosperity at hand to contrast with their 
povert}\ The world was, on the whole, pretty much as 
they alwa\^s remembered it. The}^ would have liked to be 
“ better off” if the}" knew how, but they did not know if 
there was a “ better off,” — much less how to come at it; 
and if there were, Peter Gill certainl}" did not tell them 
of it. 

If a stra}" visitor to fair or market brought back the news 
that there was an agitation abroad for a new settlement of 
the land, that popular orators were proclaiming the poor 
man’s rights, and denouncing the cruelties of the landlord, 
if they heard that men were talking of repealing the laws 
which secured property to the owner and only admitted him 
to a sort of partnership with the tiller of the soil, old Gill 


8 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


speedily assured them that these were changes only to be 
adopted in Ulster, where the tenants were rack-rented and 
treated like slaves. ‘‘Which of you here,” would he say, 
“can come forward and say he was ever evicted?” Now, 
as the term was one of which none had the very vaguest con- 
ception, — it might, for aught they knew, have been an 
operation in surgery, — the appeal was an overwhelming 
success. “ Sorra doubt of it, but ould Peter’s right, and 
there ’s worse places to live in, and worse landlords to live 
under, than the Lord.” Not but it taxed Gill’s skill and 
cleverness to maintain this quarantine against the outer 
world ; and he often felt like Prince Metternich in a like 
strait, — that it would only be a question of time, and in 
the long run the newspaper fellows must win. 

From what has been said, therefore, it may be imagined 
that Kilgobbin was not a model estate, nor Peter Gill 
exactly the sort of witness from which a select committee 
would have extracted any valuable suggestions for the con- 
struction of a land code. 

Anything short of Kate Kearney’s fine temper and genial 
disposition would have broken down by daily dealing with 
this cross-grained, wrong-headed, and obstinate old fellow, 
whose ideas of management all centred in craft and sub- 
tlety, — outwitting this man, forestalling that, — doing every- 
thing by halves, so that no boon came unassociated with 
some contingency or other by which he secured to himself 
unlimited power and uncontrolled tyranny. 

As Gill was in perfect possession of her father’s confi- 
dence, to oppose him in anything was a task of no mean 
difficulty ; and the mere thought that the old fellow should 
feel offended and throw up his charge — a threat he had 
more than once half hinted — was a terror Kilgobbin could 
not have faced. Nor was this her only care. There was 
Dick continually dunning her for remittances, and impor- 
tuning her for means to supply his extravagances. “ I 
suspected how it would be,” wrote he once, “with a lady 
paymaster. And when my father told me I was to look to 
you for my allowance, I accepted the information as a heavy 
percentage taken off my beggarly income. What could 
you — what could any young girl — know of the require- 


KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 


9 


ments of a man going out into the best society of a capital? 
To derive any benefit from associating with these people I 
must at least seem to live like them. I am received as the 
son of a man of condition and property, and you want to 
Dound my habits by those of my chum, Joe Atlee, whose 
father is starving somewhere on the pay of a Presbyterian 
minister. Ii/ven Joe himself laughs at the notion of gaug- 
ing my expenses by his. 

“ If this is to go on — I mean if you intend to persist 
in this plan — be frank enough to say so at once, and I 
will either take pupils, or seek a clerkship, or go off to 
Australia ; and 1 care precious little which of the three. 

“ 1 know what a proud thing it is for whoever manages 
the revenue to come forward and show a surplus. Chan- 
cellors of the Exchequer make great reputations in that 
fashion ; but there are certain economies that lie close to 
revolutions ; now don’t risk this, nor don’t be above tak- 
ing a hint from one some years older than you, thougii he 
neither rules his father’s house nor metes out his pocket- 
money.” 

Such, and such like, were the epistles she received from 
time to time, and though frequency blunted something of 
their sting, and their injustice gave her a support against 
their sarcasm, she read and thought over them in a spirit 
of bitter mortification. Of course she showed none of these 
letters to her father. He indeed only asked if Dick were 
well, or if he were soon going up for that scholarship or 
fellowship, — he did not know which, nor was he to blame, 
— “ which, after all, it was hard on a Kearney to stoop to 
accept, only that times were changed with us! and we 
weren’t what we used to be,” — a reflection so overwhelm- 
ing that he generally felt unable to dwell on it. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE PRINCE KOST.\LERGI. 

Mathew Kearney had once a sister whom he dearly loved, 
and whose sad fate lay very heavily on his heart, for^ he 
was not without self-accusings on the score of it. Matilda 
Kearney had been a belle of the Irish couit and a toast 
at the club when Mathew was a young fellow in town; 
and he had been very proud of her beauty, and tasted a 
full share of those attentions which often fall to the lot of 
brothers of handsome girls. 

Then INIatty was an heiress, that is, she had twelve 
thousand pounds in her own right ; and Ireland was not such 
a California as to make a very pretty girl with twelve 
thousand pounds an every-day chance. She had numerous 
offers of marriage, and with the usual luck in such cases, 
there were commonplace unattractive men with good means, 
and there were clever and agreeable fellows without a six- 
pence, all alike ineligible. Matty had that infusion of ro- 
mance in her nature that few, if any, Irish girls are free 
from, and which made her desire that the man of her choice 
should be something out of tlie common. She would have 
liked a soldier who had won distinction in the field. The 
idea of military fame was very dear to her Irish heart, and 
she fancied with what pride she would hang upon the arm 
of one whose gay trappings and gold embroidery emblem- 
atized the career he followed. If not a soldier, she would 
have liked a great orator, some leader in debate that men 
would rush down to hear, and Avhose glowing words would 
be gathered up and repeated as though inspirations : after 
that a poet, and perhaps — not a painter — a sculptor, she 
thought, might do. 

With such aspirations as these, it is not surprising that 
she rejected the offers of those comfortable fellows in Meath. 


THE PRINCE KOSTALERGI. 


11 


or Louth, whose military glories were militia drills, and 
whose eloquence w^as confined to the bench of magistrates. 

At three-and-twenty she was in the full blaze of her 
beauty ; at three-and-thirty she was still unmarried ; her 
looks on the wane, but her romance stronger than ever, 
not untinged perhaps with a little bitterness towards that 
sex which had not afforded one man of merit enough to woo 
and win her. Partly out of pique with a land so barren of 
all that could minister to imagination, partly in anger with 
her brother w'ho had been urging her to a match she disliked, 
she went abroad to travel, wandered about for a year or 
two, and at last found herself one winter at Naples. 

There was at that time, as secretary to the Greek legation, 
a young fellow whom repute called the handsomest man in 
Piurope ; he was a certain Spiridion Kostalergi, whose title 
was Prince of Delos, though whether there was such a 
principality, or that he w^as its representative, society was 
not fully agreed upon. At all events. Miss Kearney met 
him at a court ball, when he wore his national costume, 
looking, it must be owned, so splendidly handsome that all 
thought of his princely rank was forgotten in presence of a 
face and figure that recalled the highest triumphs of ancient 
art. It was Antinous come to life in an embroidered cap 
and a gold worked jacket, and it was Antinous with a voice 
like Mario, and who waltzed to perfection. This splendid 
creature, a modern Alcibiades in gifts of mind and graces, 
soon heard, amongst his other triumphs, how a rich and 
handsome Irish girl had fallen in love with him at first sight. 
He had himself been struck by her good looks and her 
stylish air, and learning that there could be no doubt about 
lier fortune, he lost no time in making his advances. Before 
the end of the first week of their acquaintance he proposed. 
Slie referred him to her brother before she could consent ; 
and though, when 'Kostalergi inquired amongst her Pbiglish 
friends, none had ever heard of a Lord Kilgobbin, the fact 
of his being Irish explained their ignorance, not to say that 
Kearney’s reply, being a positive refusal of consent, so fully 
satisfied the Greek that it was “a good thing,” he pressed 
liis suit with a most passionate ardor : threatened to kill 
himself if she persisted in rejecting him, and so worked 


12 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


upon her heart by his devotion, or on her pride by the 
thought of his position, that she yielded, and within three 
weeks from the day they first met, she became the Princess 
of Delos. 

When a Greek, holding any public employ, marries money, 
his Government is usually prudent enough to promote him. 
It is a recognition of the merit that others have discovered, 
and a wise administration marches with the inventions of 
the age it lives in. Kostalergi’s chief was consequently 
recalled, suffered to fall back upon his previous obscurity, — 
he had been a commission-agent for a house in the Greek 
trade, — and the Prince of Delos gazetted as Minister Pleni- 
potentiary of Greece, with the first class of St. Salvador, 
in recognition of his services to the state ; no one being 
indiscreet enough to add that the aforesaid services were 
comprised in marrying an Irishwoman with a dowry of — to 
quote the “Athenian Hemera ” — “ three hundred and fifty 
thousand drachmas.” 

For a w^hile — it was a very brief while — the romantic 
mind of the Irish girl was raised to a sort of transport of 
enjoyment. Here was everything — more than everything 
— her most glowing imagination had ever conceived. Love, 
ambition, station, all gratified, though to be sure, she had 
quarrelled with her brother, who had leturned her last 
letters unopened. Mathew, she thought, was too good- 
hearted to bear a long grudge ; he would see her happiness, 
he would hear what a devoted and good husband her dear 
Spiridion had proved himself, and he would forgive her at 
last. 

Though, as was well known, the Greek Envoy received 
but a very moderate salary from his Government, and even 
that not paid with a strict punctuality, the legation was 
maintained with a splendor that rivalled, if not surpassed, 
those of France, England, or Russia. Tlie Prince of Delos 
led the fashion in equipage, as did the Princess in toilette ; 
their dinners, their balls, their fetes, attracted the curiosity 
of even the highest to witness them ; and to such a degree 
of notoriety had the Greek hospitality attained, that Naples 
at last admitted that without tlie Palazzo Kostalergi there 
would be nothing to attract strangers to the capital. 


THE PKINCE KOSTALERGI. 


13 


Play, so invariably excluded from the habits of an 
embassy, was carried on at this legation to such an excess 
that the clubs were completely deserted, and all the young 
men of gambling tastes Hocked here each night, sure to find 
lansquenet or faro, and for stakes which no public table 
could possibly supply. It was not alone that this life of a 
gambler estranged Kostalergi from his wife, but that the 
scandal of his infidelities had reached her also, just at the 
time when some vague glimmering suspicions of his utter 
worthlessness were breaking on her mind. The birth of a 
little girl did not seem in the slightest degree to renew the 
ties between them ; on the contrary, the embarrassment of a 
baby and the cost it must entail were the only considerations 
he would entertain, and it was a constant question of his — 
uttered, too, with a tone of sarcasm that cut her to the heart : 
“Would not her brother — the Lord Irlandais — like to 
have that baby? Would she not write and ask him? ” Un- 
pleasant stories had long been rife about the play at the 
Greek legation, when a young Russian secretary, of high 
family and influence, lost an immense sum under circum- 
stances which determined him to refuse payment. Kosta- 
lergi, who had been the chief winner, refused everything like 
inquiry or examination ; in fact, he made investigation im- 
possible, for the cards, which the Russian had declared to be 
marked, the Greek gathered up slowly from the table and 
threw into the fire, pressing his foot upon them in the flames, 
and then calmly returning to where the other stood, he struck 
him across the face with his open hand, saying, as he did it : 
“Here is another debt to repudiate, and before the same 
witnesses also ! ” 

The outrage did not admit of delay. The arrangements 
were made in an instant, and within half an hour — merely 
time enough to send for a surgeon — they met at the end of 
the garden of the legation. The Russian fired first, and, 
though a consummate pistol-shot, agitation at the insult so 
unnerved him that he missed ; his ball cut the knot of Kos- 
talergfs cravat. The Greek took a calm and deliberate aim, 
and sent his bullet through the other’s forehead. He fell 
without a word, stone dead. 

Though the duel had been a fair one, and the proces verbal 


14 


LORD KTLGOBBIN. 


drawn up and agreed on both sides showed that all had been 
done loyally, the friends of the young Russian had influence 
to make the Greek Government not only recall the Envoy, 
but abolish the mission itself. 

For some years the Kostalergis lived in retirement at 
Palermo, not knowing nor known to any one. Their means 
were now so reduced that they had barely suflicieut for daily 
life, and though the Greek Prince — as he was called — 
constantly appeared on the public promenade well dressed, 
and in all the pride of his handsome figure, it was currently 
said that his wife was literally dying of want. 

It was only after long and agonizing suffering that she 
ventured to write to her brother, and appeal to him for 
advice and assistance. But at last she did so, and a corre- 
spondence grew up w'hich, in a measure, restored the affection 
between them. AV^hen Kostalergi discovered the source from 
which his wretched wife now drew her consolation and her 
courage, he forbade her to write more, and himself addressed 
a letter to Kearney so insulting and offensive — charging 
him even with causing the discord of his home, and showing 
the letter to his wife before sending it — that the poor 
woman, long failing in health and broken-down, sank soon 
after, and died so destitute that the very funeral was paid 
for by a subscription amongst her countrymen. Kostalergi 
had left her some days before her death, carrying the girl 
along with him, nor w^as his whereabouts learned for a con- 
siderable time. 

When next he emerged into the world it was at Rome, 
where he gave lessons in music and modern languages, in 
many of which he was a proficient. His splendid appear- 
ance, his captivating address, his thorough familiarity with 
the modes of society, gave him the entree to many houses 
where his talents amply requited the hospitality he received. 
He possessed, amongst his other gifts, an immense amount 
of plausibility, and people found it, besides, very difficult to 
believe ill of that well-bred, somewhat retirinir man, who, 
in circumstances of the very narrowest fortunes, not only 
looked and dressed like a gentleman, but actually brought 
up a daughter with a degree of care and an amount of regard 
to her education that made him appear a model parent. 


THE PRINCE KOSTALEKGl. 


15 


Nina Kostalergi was then about seventeen, though she 
looked at least three years older. She was a tall, slight, 
pale girl, with perfectly regular features, — so classic in the 
mould, and so devoid of any expression, that she recalled the 
face one sees on a cameo. Her hair was of wondrous beauty, 
— that rich, gold color which has reflets through it, as the 
light falls full or faint, and of an abundance that taxed her 
ingenuity to dress it. They gave her the sobriquet of the 
Titian Girl at Rome whenever she appeared abroad. 

In the only letter Kearney had received from his brother- 
in-law after his sister’s death was an insolent demand for a 
sum of money which he alleged that Kearney was unjustly 
withholding, and which he now threatened to enforce by 
law. “I am well aware,” wrote he, “what measure of 
honor or honesty I am to expect from a man whose very 
name and designation are a deceit. But probably prudence 
will suggest how much better it would be on this occasion to 
simulate rectitude than risk the shame of an open exposure.” 

To this gross insult Kearney never deigned any reply; 
and now more than two years passed without any tidings of 
his disreputable relation, when there came one morning a 
letter with the Roman post-mark, and addressed, “ X Mon- 
sieur le Vicomte de Kilgobbin, a son Chfiteau de Kilgobbin, 
en Irlande.” To the honor of the officials in the Irish 
post-office, it was forwarded to Kilgobbin with the words, 
“ Try Mathew Kearney, Esq.,” in the corner. 

A glance at the writing showed it was not in Kostalergi’s 
hand, and, after a moment or two of hesitation, Kearney 
opened it. Fie turned at once for the writer’s name, and 
read the words, “Nina Kostalergi,” — his sister’s child! 
“ Poor Matty,” was all he could say for some minutes. He 
remembered the letter in wliich she told him of her little 
girl’s birth, and implored his forgiveness for herself and his 
love for her baby. “ I want both, my dear brother,” wrote 
she; “for though the bonds we make for ourselves by our 
passions — ” And the rest of the sentence was erased — 
she, evidently thinking she had delineated all that could give 
a clew to a despondent reflection. 

The present letter was written in English, but in that 
quaint, peculiar hand Italians often write in. It begun by 


16 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


asking forgiveness for daring to write to him, and recalling 
the details of the relationship between them, as though he 
could not have remembered it. “I am, then, in my right,” 
wrote she, “ when I address you as my dear, dear uncle, of 
whom I have heard so much, and whose name was in my 
prayers ere I knew why I knelt to pray.” 

Then followed a piteous appeal, — it was actually a cry for 
protection. Her father, she said, had determined to devote 
her to the stage, and already had taken steps to sell her — 
she said she used the word advisedly — for so many years to 
the impresario of the Fenice at Venice, her voice and musical 
skill being such as to give hope of her becoming a prima 
donna. She had, she said, frequently sung at private parties 
at Rome, but only knew within the last few days that she 
had been, not a guest, but a paid performer. Overwhelmed 
with the shame and indignity of this false position, she 
implored her mother’s brother to compassionate her. “ If I 
could not become a governess, I could be your servant, 
dearest uncle,” she wrote. “ I only ask a roof to shelter 
me, and a refuge. May I go to you? I would beg my way 
on foot if I only knew that at the last your heart and your 
door would be open to me, and as I fell at your feet, knew 
that I was saved.” 

Until a few days ago, she said, she had by her some little 
trinkets her mother had left her, and on which she counted 
as a means of escape; but her father had discovered them, 
and taken them from her. 

“ If you answer this — and oh ! let me not doubt you will — write 
to me to the care of the Signori Cayani and Battistella, bankers, 
Rome. Do not delay, but remember that I am friendless, and but 
for this chance hopeless. 

“Your niece, Nina Kostalergi.” 

'While Kearney gave this letter to his daughter to read, he 
walked up and down the room with his head bent and his 
hands deep in his pockets. 

“ I think I know the answer you’ll send to this, papa,” 
said the girl, looking up at him with a glow of pride and 
affection in her face. _ “I do not need that you should 
say it.” 


THE PRINCE KOSTALERGI. 


17 


“It will take fifty — no, not fifty, but five-and-thirty 
pounds to bring her over here, and how is she to come all 
alone ? ” 

Kate made no reply ; she knew the danger sometimes of 
interrupting his own solution of a difficulty. 

“She’s a big girl, 1 suppose, by this, — fourteen or 
fifteen? ” 

“Over nineteen, papa.” 

“So she is, I was forgetting. That scoundrel, her 
father, might come after her ; he ’d have the right if he 
wished to enforce it, and what a scandal he ’d bring upon 
us all I ” 

“ But would he care to do it? Is he not more likely to be 
glad to be disembarrassed of her charge ? ” 

“ Not if he was going to sell her, — not if he could convert 
her into money.” 

“ He has never been in England; he may not know how 
far the law would give him any power over her.” 

“Don’t trust that, Kate; a blackguard always can find 
out how much is in his favor everywhere. If he doesn’t 
know it now, he’d know it the day after he landed.” He 
paused an instant, and then said: “There will be the devil 
to pay with old Peter Gill, for lie ’ll want all the cash I can 
scrape together for Loughrea fair. He counts on having 
eighty sheep down there at the long crofts, and a cow or 
two besides. That ’s money’s worth, girl ! ” 

Another silence followed, after which he said, “ And I 
think worse of the Greek scoundrel than all the cost.” 

“ Somehow, I have no fear that he ’ll come here.” 

“ You ’ll have to talk over Peter, Kitty,” — he always said 
Kitty when he meant to coax her. “ He ’ll mind you, and at 
all events you don’t care about his grumbling. Tell him it’s 
a sudden call on me for railroad shares, or ” — and here he 
wdnked knowing^ — “say, it’s going to Rome the money 
is, and for the Pope ! ” 

“That’s an excellent thought, papa,” said she, laughing; 
“I’ll certainly tell him the money is going to Rome, and 
you ’ll write soon, — you see with what anxiety she expects 
your answer.” 

“ I’ll write to-night when the house is quiet, and there’s 


18 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


no racket nor disturbance about me.” Now, though Kearney 
said this with a perfect conviction of its truth and reason- 
ableness, it would have been very dilhcult for any one to say 
in what that racket he spoke of consisted, or wherein the 
quietude of even midnight was greater than that which pre- 
vailed there at noonday. Never, perhaps, Avere liA^es more 
completely still or monotonous than theirs. People who 
derive no interests from the outer world, who know nothing 
of what goes on in life, gradually subside into a condition in 
which reflection takes the place of conversation, and lose all 
zest and all necessity for that small talk which serves, like 
the changes of a game, to while away time, and by the aid 
of which, if we do no more, we often delude the cares and 
worries of existence. 

A kind good-morning when they met, and a few words 
during the dav, — some mention of this or that event of 
the farm or the laborers, and rare enough too, — some 
little incident that happened amongst the tenants, made 
all the materials of their intercouse, and filled up lives 
which either would very freely have owned were far from 
unhappy. 

Dick, indeed, when he came home and was weather-bound 
for a day, did lament his sad destiny, and mutter half intelli- 
gible nonsense of what he would not rather do than descend 
to such a melancholy existence ; but in all his complainings 
he never made Kate discontented Avith her lot, or desire any- 
thing beyond it. 

“ It ’s all very well,” he would say, “till you know some- 
thing better.” 

“But I want no better ! ” 

“Do you mean you’d like to go through life in this 
fashion? ” 

“ I can’t pretend to say what I may feel as I grow older ; 
but if I could be sure to be as I am now, I could ask nothing 
better.” 

“ I must say, it ’s a very inglorious life ! ” said he, with a 
sneer. 

“So it is, but how many, may I ask, are there who 
lead glorious lives? Is there any glory in dining out, in 
dancing, Ausiting, and picnicking? Where is the great glory 


THE PRINCE KOSTALERGI. 


19 


of the billiard-table or the croquet-lawu? No, no, my 
dear Dick, the only glory that falls to the share of such 
humble folks as we are, is to have something to do, and 
to do it.” 

Such were the sort of passages which would now and then 
occur between them, — little contests, be it said, in which she 
usually came off the conqueror. 

If she were to have a wish gratified, it would have been a 
few more books, — something besides those odd volumes of 
Scott’s novels, “ Zeluco ” by Dr. Moore, and “Florence 
M’Carthy,” which comprised her whole library, and which she 
read over and over unceasingly. She was now in her usual 
place, — a deep window-seat — intently occupied with Amy 
Robsart’s sorrows, when her father came to read what he had 
written in answer to Nina. If it was very brief it was very 
affectionate. It told her in a few words that she had no need 
to recall the ties of their relationship ; that his heart never 
ceased to remind him of them ; that his home was a very dull 
one, but that her cousin Kate would try and make it a happy 
one to her ; entreated her to confer with the banker, to whom 
he remitted forty pounds, in what way she could make the 
journey, since he was too broken in health himself to go and 
fetch her. “It is a bold step I am counselling you to 

take. It is no light thing to quit a father’s home, and I 
have my misgivings how far I am a wise adviser in recom- 
mending it. There is, however, a present peril, and I must 
try, if I can, to save you from it. Perhaps, in my old-world 
notions, I attach to the thought of the stage ideas that you 
would only smile at ; but none of our race, so far as I know, 
fell to that condition, — nor must you while I have a roof 
to shelter you. 

“If you would write and say about what time I might 
expect you, I will try to meet you on j^our landing in Eng- 
land at Dover. 

“ Kate sends you her warmest love, and longs to see 
you.” 

Tliis was the whole of it. But a brief line to the 
bankers said that any expense they judged needful to her 
safe convoy across Europe would be gratefully repaid by 
him. 


20 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Is it all right, dear? Have I forgotten anything? ” 
asked he, as Kate read it over. 

“It’s everything, papa, — everything. And I do long to 
see her.” 

“1 hope she’s like Matty; if she’s only like her poor 
mother, it will make my heart young again to look at her.” 


CHAPTER III. 


“the chums.’’ 

In that old square of Trinity College, Dublin, one side of 
which fronts the Park, and in chambers on the ground floor, 
an oak door bore the names of “Kearney and Atlee.” 

Kearney was the son of Lord Kilgobbin; Atlee, his chum, 
the son of a Presbyterian minister in the North of Ireland, 
had been four years in the university, but was still in his 
freshman period, not from any deficiency of scholarlike 
ability to push on, but that, as the poet of the “Seasons” 
lay in bed, because he “had no motive for rising,” Joe Atlee 
felt that there need be no urgency about taking a degree 
which, when he had got, he should be sorely puzzled to know 
what to do with. He was a clever, ready-witted, but capri- 
cious fellow, fond of pleasure, and self-indulgent to a degree 
that ill suited his very smallest of fortunes; for his father 
was a poor man, with a large family, and had already embar- 
rassed himself heavily by the cost of sending his eldest son 
to the university. Joe’s changes of purpose — for he had 
in succession abandoned law for medicine, medicine for 
theology, and theology for civil engineering, and, finally, 
gave them all up — had so outraged his father that he de- 
clared he would not continue any allowance to him beyond 
the present year; to which .Joe replied by the same post, 
sending back the twenty pounds enclosed him, and saying: 
“The onl}’^ amendment I would make to your motion is — as 
to the date — let it begin from to-day. I suppose I shall 
have to swim without corks some time. I may as well try 
now as later on.” 

The first experience of his “swimming without corks ” was 
to lie in bed two days and smoke; the next was to rise at 
daybreak and set out on a long walk into the country, from 


22 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


which he returned late at night, wearied and exhausted, 
having eaten but once during the day. 

Kearney, dressed for an evening party, resplendent with 
jewelry, essenced and curled, was about to issue forth, when 
Atlee, dusty and way-worn, entered and threw himself into 
a chair. 

‘‘What lark have you been on. Master Joe?” he said. 
“I have not seen you for three days, if not four! ” 

“No; I ’ve begun to train,” said he, gravely. “I want to 
see how long a fellow could hold on to life on three pipes 
of Cavendish per diem. I take it that the absorbents won’t 
be more cruel than a man’s creditors, and will not issue a 
distraint where there are no assets, so that probably by the 
time I shall have brought myself down to, let us say, seven 
stone weight, I shall have reached the goal.” 

This speech he delivered slowly and calmly, as though 
enunciating a very grave proposition. 

“What new nonsense is this? Don’t you think health 
worth something? ” 

“Next to life, unquestionably; but one condition of 
health is to be alive, and I don’t see how to manage that. 
Look here, Dick, I have just had a quarrel with my father; 
he is an excellent man and an impressive preacher, but he 
fails in the imaginative qualities. Nature has been a nig- 
gard to him in inventiveness. He is the minister of a little 
parish called Aghadoe, in the North, where they give him 
two hundred and ten pounds per annum. There are eight 
in family, and he actually does not see his way to allow me 
one hundred and fifty out of it. That ’s the way they neg- 
lect arithmetic in our modern schools ! ” 

“Has he reduced your allowance?” 

“He has done more; he has extinguished it.” 

“Have you provoked him to this? ” 

“1 have provoked him to it.” 

“But is it not possible to accommodate matters? It 
should not be very difficult, surely, to show him that once 
you are launched in life — ” 

“And when will that be, Dick?” broke in the other. “I 
have been on the stocks these four years, and that launch- 
ing process you talk of looks just as remote as ever. No, 


“THE CHUMS.” 


90 


no; let us be fair: be has all the right on his side; all the 
wrong is on mine. Indeed, so far as conscience goes, I have 
always felt it so; but one’s conscience, like one’s boots, gets 
so pliant from wear, that it ceases to give pain. Still, on 
my honor, I never hip*hurraed to a toast that I did not feel 
there goes broken boots to one of the boys, or, worse again, 
the cost of a cotton dress for one of the sisters. Whenever 
I took a sherry-cobbler 1 thought of suicide after it. Self- 
indulgence and self-reproach got linked in my nature so 
inseparably it was hopeless to summon one without the 
other; till at last I grew to believe it was very heroic in me 
to deny myself nothing, seeing how sorry I should be for it 
afterwards. But come, old fellow, don’t lose your evening; 
we ’ll have time enough to talk over these things. Where 
are jmu going?” 

“To the Clancys’.” 

“To be sure; what a fellow 1 am to forget it was Betty’s 
birthday, and I was to have brought her a bouquet! Dick, 
be a good fellow and tell her some lie or other, — that I 
wms sick in bed, or away to see an aunt or a grandmother, 
and that I had a splendid bouquet for her, but would n’t let 
it reach her through other hands than my own; but to- 
morrow — to-morrow she shall have it.” 

“You know well enough you don’t mean anything of the 
sort.” 

“ On my honor, I ’ll keep my promise. I ’ve an old silver 
watch yonder; I think it knows the way to the pawn-office 
by itself. There, now be off, for if I begin to think of all 
the fun you ’re going to, I shall just dress and join you.” 

“No, I’d not do that,” said Dick, gravely; “nor shall I 
stay long myself. . Don’t go to bed, Joe, till I come back. 
Good-b}’e.” 

“Say all good and sweet things to Betty for me. Tell 
her — ” Kearney did not wait for his message, but hurried 
down the steps and drove off. 

Joe sat down at the fire, filled his pipe, looked steadily at 
it, and then laid it on the mantelpiece. “No, no. Master 
Joe. You must be thrifty now. You have smoked twice 
since — I can afford to say — since dinner-time, for you 
have n’t dined. It is strange, now that the sense of hunger 


24 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


has passed off, what a sense of excitement I feel. Two 
hours back 1 could have been a cannibal. I believe I could 
have eaten the vice-provost, — though I should have liked 
him strongly devilled; and now I feel stimulated. Hence 
it is, perhaps, that so little wine is enough to affect the 
heads of starving people, — almost maddening them. Per- 
haps Dick suspected something of this, for he did not care 
that I should go along with him. Who knows but he may 
have thought the sight of a supper might have overcome 
me? If he knew but all! I ’m much more disposed to make 
love to Letty Clancy than to go in for galantine and cham- 
pagne. By the way, I wonder if the ph^^siologists are aware 
of that? It is, perhaps, what constitutes the ethereal condi- 
tion of love. I ’ll write an essay on that, or, better still, 
I ’ll write a review of an imaginary French essay. French- 
men are permitted to say so much more than we are, and 
I ’ll be rebukeful on the score of his excesses. The bitter 
way in which a Frenchman always visits his various inca- 
pacities — whether it be to know something, or to do some- 
thing, or to be something — on the species he belongs to; 
the way in which he suggests that, had he been consulted on 
the matter, humanity had been a much more perfect organi- 
zation, and able to sustain a great deal more of wickedness 
without disturbance, is great fun. I ’ll certainly invent a 
Frenchman, and make him an author, and then demolish him. 
What if I make him die of hunger, having tasted nothing for 
eight days but the proof-sheets of his great work, — the work 
I am then reviewing? For four days — but stay; — if I 
starve him to death, I cannot tear his work to pieces. No; 
he shall be alive, living in splendor and honor, a frequenter 
of the Tuileries, a favored guest at Compiegne.” 

Without perceiving it, he had now taken his pipe, lighted 
it, and was smoking away. “By the way, how those 
same Imperialists have played the game I — the two or three 
middle-aged men that Kinglake says, ‘ Put their heads 
together to plan for a livelihood ; ’ I wish they had taken 
me into the partnership. It ’s the sort of thing I ’d have 
liked well; ay, and I could have done it, too! I wonder,” 
said he, aloud, — “I wonder if I were an emperor should I 
marry Letty Clancy? I suspect not. Letty would have 


"THE CHUMS.” 


25 


been flippant as an empress, and her cousins would have 
made atrocious princes of the Imperial family; though, for 
the matter of that — Hullo ! Here have I been smokiuo- 
without knowing it! Can any one tell us whether the sms 
we do inadvertently count as sins, or do we square them otf 
by our inadvertent good actions? I trust I shall not be 
called on to catalogue mine. There, my courage is out! ” 
As he said this he emptied the ashes of his pipe, and gazed 
sorrowfully at the empty bowl. 

“Now, if I were the son of some good house, with a high- 
sounding name and well-to-do relations, I ’d soon bring them 
to terms if they dared to cast me off. I ’d turn milk or 
muffin man, and serve the street they lived in. I 'd sweep 
the crossing in front of their windows, or I ’d commit a 
small theft, and call on my high connections for a character, 
but being who and what I am, I might do any or all of 
these, and shock nobody. 

“Next, to take stock of my effects. Let me see what my 
assets will bring when reduced to cash; for this time it 
shall be a sale.” And he turned to a table where paper 
and pens were lying, and proceeded to write. “Personal, 
sworn under, let us say, ten thousand pounds. Literature 
first. To divers worn copies of Virgil, Tacitus, Juvenal, 
and Ovid, Coesar’s Commentaries, and Catullus; to ditto 
ditto of Homer, Lucian, Aristophanes, Balzac, Anacreon, 
Bacon’s Essays, and Moore’s Melodies; to Dwight's 
Theology, uncut copy; Heine’s Poems, very much thumbed; 
Saint Simon, very ragged; two volumes of Les Causes 
Celebres, Tone’s Memoirs, and Beranger’s Songs; to 
Cuvier’s Comparative Anatomy, Schroeder on Shakspeare, 
Newman’s Apology,. Archbold’s Criminal Law and Songs 
of the Nation; to Colenso, East’s Cases for the Crown, 
Carte’s Ormonde, and Pickwick. But why go on? Let us 
call it the small but well-selected library of a distressed 
trentleman, whose cultivated mind is reflected in the maroinal 
notes with which these volumes abound. Will any gentle- 
man say, ‘ £10 for the lot’? Why, the very criticisms are 
.^orth — I mean to a man of literary tastes — five times the 
amount. No offer at £10? Who is it that says ‘five’? 
I trust my ears have deceived me. You repeat the insult- 


26 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


ing proposal? Well, sir, on your own head be it! Mr. 
Atlee’s library — or the Atlee collection is better — was 
yesterday disposed of to a well-known collector of rare 
books, and, if we are rightly informed, for a mere fraction 
of its value. Never mind, sir, I bear you no ill-will! I 
was irritable, and to show you my honest animus in the 
matter, I beg to present you, in addition with this, a hand- 
somely bound and gilt copy of a sermon by the Reverend 
Isaac Atlee, on the opening of the new meeting-house in 
Coleraine, — a discourse that cost my father some sleepless 
nights, though I have heard the effect on the congregation 
was dissimilar. 

“The pictures are few. Cardinal Cullen, I believe, is 
Kearney’s; at all events, he is the worse for being made a 
target for pistol-Oring, and the archiepiscopal nose has 
been sorely damaged. Two views of Killarney in the 
weather of the period, — that means July, and raining in 
torrents,* and consequently the scene, for aught discover- 
able, might be the Gaboon. Portrait of Joe Atlee, aetatis 
four years, with a villanous squint, and something that 
looks like a plug in the left jaw. A Sk}^ terrier, painted, 
it is supposed, by himself ; not to recite unframed prints 
of various celebrities of the ballet, in accustomed attitudes, 
with the Reverend Paul Bloxham blessing some children — 
though from the gesture and the expression of the juveniles 
it might seem cuffing them — on the inauguration of the 
Sunday-school at Kilmurry Macmacmahon. 

“ Lot three, interesting to anatomical lecturers and others, 
especially those engaged in paleontology. The articulated 
skeleton of an Irish giant, representing a man who must 
have stood in his no-stockings eight feet four inches. 
This, I ma}^ add, will be warranted as authentic, in so far 
that I made him myself out of at least eighteen or twenty 
big specimens, with a few slight ‘ divergencies ’ I may call 
them, such as putting in eight more dorsal vertebrae than 
the regulation, and that the right femur is two inches longer 
than the left. The inferior maxillary, too, was stolen from 
a ‘ Pithacus Satyrus ’ in the Cork Museum by an old friend, 
since transported for F’enianism. These blemishes apart, 
he is an admirable giant, and fully as ornamental and 
useful as the species generally. 


“THE CHUMS.” 


27 


“As to my wardrobe, it is less costly than curious; an 
alpaca paletot of a neutral tint, which I have much affected 
of late, having indisposed me to other wear. For dinner 
and evening duty I usually wear Kearney’s, though too 
tight across the chest, and short in the sleeves. These, 
with a silver watch which no pawnbroker — and I have tried 
eight — will ever advance more on than seven-and-six. I 
once got the figure up to nine shillings by supplementing 
an umbrella, which was Dick’s, and which still remains 
‘ unclaimed and unredeemed. ’ 

“Two o’clock, by all that is supperless! evidently Kear- 
ney is enjoying himself. Ah, youth, youth! I wish I could 
remember some of the spiteful things that are said of you, 
— not but on the whole, I take it, you have the right end of 
the stick. Is it possible there is nothing to eat in this in- 
hospitable mansion?” He arose and opened a sort of cup- 
board in the wall, scrutinizing it closely with the candle. 
“‘Give me but the superfluities of life,’ says Gavarni, 
‘ and I ’ll not trouble you for its necessaries.’ What would 
he say, however, to a fellow famishing with hunger in pres- 
ence of nothing but pickled mushrooms and Worcester 
sauce! Oh, here is a crust! ‘Bread is the staff of life.’ 
On my oath, I believe so; for this eats devilish like a 
walking-stick. 

“Hullo! back already?” cried he, as Kearney flung wide 
the door and entered. “I suppose you hurried away back 
to join me at supper,” 

“Thanks; but I have supped already, and at a more 
tempting banquet than this I see before you.” 

“Was it pleasant ?_was it jolly? Were the girls looking 
lovely? Was the champagne-cup well iced? Was every- 
lx)dv charming? Tell me all about it. Let me have 
second-hand pleasure, since I can’t afford the new article.” 
“It was pretty much like every other small ball here, 
where the garrison get all the prettiest girls for partners, 
and take the mammas down to supper after.” 

“Cunning dogs, who secure flirtation above stairs and 
food below! And what is stirring in the world? What are 
the gayeties in prospect? Are any of my old flames about 
to get married ? ” 


28 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“I did n’t know you had any.” 

“Have I not! I believe half the parish of St. Peter’s 
might proceed against me for breach of promise ; and if the 
law allowed me as many wives as Brigham Young, I ’d be 
still disappointing a large and interesting section of society 
in the suburbs.” 

“They have made a seizure on the office of the ‘Pike,’ 
carried off the press and the whole issue, and are in eager 
pursuit after Madden, the editor.” 

“ AVhat for? What is it all about? ” 

“A new ballad he has published; but which, for the 
matter of that, they were singing at every corner as I 
came along.” 

“AYas it good? Did you buy a copy? ” 

“Buy a copy? I should think not.” 

“Couldn’t your patriotism stand the test of a penny?” 

“It might if I wanted the production, which I certainly 
did not; besides, there is a run upon this, and they were 
selling it at sixpence.” 

“Hurrah! There’s hope for Ireland after all! Shall I 
sing it for you, old fellow? Not that you deserve it. Eng- 
lish corruption has damped the little Irish ardor that old 
rebellion once kindled in your heart; and if you could get 
rid of your brogue, you ’re ready to be loyal. You shall 
hear it, however, all the same.” And taking up a very 
damaged-looking guitar, he struck a few bold chords, and 
began : — 


Is there anything more we can fight or can hate for 1 
The “drop” and the famine have made our ranks thin. 
In the name of endurance, then, what do we wait for 
Will nobody give us the word to begin ] 

Some brothers have left us iu sadness and sorrow, 

In despair of the cause they had sworn to win ; 

They owned they were sick of that cry of “ to-morrow ; ” 
Not a man would believe that we meant to begin. 

We ’ve been ready for months — is there one can deny it ? 

Is there any one here thinks rebellion a sin 1 
We counted the cost — and we did not decry it, 

And we asked for no more than the word to begin. 


“THE CHUMS.” 


29 


At Vinegar Hill, when our fathers were fighters, 

AVith numbers against them, they cared nut a pin; 
They needed no orders from newspaper writers, 

To tell them the day it was time to begin. 

To sit down here in sadness and silence to bear it, 

Is harder to face than the battle’s loud din ; 

’T is the shame that will kill me — I vow it, I swear it ! 
Now or never ’s the time, if we mean to begin. 


There was a wild rapture in the way he struck the last 
chords, that, if it did not evince ecstasy, seemed to coun- 
terfeit enthusiasm. 

“Very poor doggerel, with all your bravura,” said Kear- 
ney, sneeringly. 

“What would you have? I only got three-and-six 
for it.” 

“You! Is that thing yours?” 

“Yes, sir; that thing is mine. And the Castle people 
think somewhat more gravely about it than you do.” 

“At which you are pleased, doubtless?” 

“Not pleased, but proud. Master Dick, let me tell you. 
It’s a very stimulating reflection to the man who dines on 
an onion, that he can spoil the digestion of another fellow 
who has been eating turtle.” 

“ But you may have to go to prison for this.” 

“ Not if you don’t peach on me, for you are the onl}^ 
one who knows the authorship. You see, Dick, these things 
are done cautiously. They are dropped into a letter-box 
with an initial letter, and a clerk hands the pa3^ment to 
some of those itinerant hags that sing the melod}", and who 
can be trusted with the secret as implicitl}^ as the briber 
at a borough election.” 

“ I wish 3^011 had a better livelihood, Joe.” 

“So do I, or that my present one paid better. The 
fact is, Dick, patriotism never was worth much as a career 
till one got to the top of the profession. But if 3'ou mean 
to sleep at all, old fellow, ‘ it ’s time to begin ; ’ ” and he 
chanted out the last words in a clear and ringing tone, as 
he banged the door behind him. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AT “ TRINITY.” 

It was while the two young men were seated at breakfast 
that the post arrived, bringing a number of country news- 
papers, for which, in one shape or other, .Joe Atlee wrote 
something. Indeed, he was an “own correspondent,” dat- 
ing from London, or Paris, or occasionally from Rome, 
with an easy freshness, and a local color that vouched for 
authenticity. These journals were of a very political tint, 
from emerald green to the deepest orange ; and, indeed, be- 
tween two of them — the “ Tipperary Pike” and the “ Boyne 
Water,” liailing from Carrickfergus — there was a contro- 
versy of such violence and intemperance of language, that 
it was a curiosity to see the two papers on the same table ; 
the fact being capable of explanation, that the}^ were both 
written by Joe Atlee, — a secret, however, that he had not 
confided even to his friend Kearney. 

“Will that fellow that signs himself Terry O’Toole in 
the ‘Pike’ stand tins?” cried Kearney, reading aloud from 
the “ Boyne Water ” : — 

“ ‘ We know the man who corresponds with you under the signa- 
ture of Terry O’Toole, and it is but one of the aliases under which 
he has lived since he came out of the Richmond Bridewell, filcher, 
forger, and false witness. There is yet one thing he has never 
tried, which is to behave with a little courage. If he should, how- 
ever, be able to persuade himself, by the aid of his accustomed 
stimulants, to accept the responsibility of what he has written, we 
bind ourselves to pay his expenses to any part of France or Belgium, 
where he will meet us, and we shall also bind ourselves to give him 
what his life little entitles him to, a Christian burial afterwards. 

) »» 


“‘No Surrender. 


AT “TRINITY.” 


31 


‘lam just reading the answer,” said Joe. “It is very 
brief ; here it is : — 

“‘If “No Surrender” — who has been a newsvender in your 
establishment since you yourself rose from that employ to' the 
editor’s chair — will call at this office any morning after distributing 
his eight copies of your daily issue, we promise to give him such a 
kicking as he has never experienced during his literary career. 

“ ‘ Tekky O’Toole,’ ” 

“ And these are the amenities of journalism,” cried 
Kearney. 

“ For the matter of that, you might exclaim at the quack 
doctor of a fair, and ask, Is this the dignity of medicine?” 
said .loe. “There’s a head and a tail to every walk in 
life : even the law has a Chief Justice at one end and a 
Jack Ketch at the other.” 

“ Well, I sincerely wish that those blackguards would 
first kick and then shoot each other.” 

“They’ll do nothing of the kind! It’s just as likely 
that they wrote the whole correspondence at the same 
table and with the same jug of punch between them.” 

“ If so, I don’t envy you your career or your comrades.” 

“ It ’s a lottery with big prizes in the wheel all the same I 
I could tell you the names of great swells. Master Dick, 
who have made very proud places for themselves in Eng- 
land by what you call ‘ journalism.’ In France it is the 
one road to eminence. Cannot you imagine, besides, what 
capital fun it is to be able to talk to scores of people 
you were never introduced to? to tell them an infinit}" of 
things on public matters, or now and then about them- 
selves ; and in so many moods as you have tempers, to 
warn them, scold, compassionate, correct, console, or abuse 
them? to tell them not to be over-confident or bumptious 
or purse-proud — ” 

“And who are yoii^ may I ask, who presume to do all 
this ? ” 

“That’s as it may be. We are occasionally Guizot, 
Thiers, Prevost-Paradol, Lyttou, Disraeli, or Joe Atlee.” 

“ iModest, at all events.” 

“And why not say what I feel, — not what I have done, 


32 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


but what is in me to do ? Can’t you understand this : it 
would never occur to me that I could vault over a five-bar 
gate if I had been born a cripple? but the conscious posses- 
sion of a little pliant muscularity might well tempt me to 
try it.” 

“ And get a cropper for your pains.” 

‘^Be it so. Better the cropper than pass one’s life look- 
ing over the top rail and envying the fellow that had cleared 
it; but what’s this? here’s a letter here; it got in amongst 
the newspapers. I say, Dick, do you stand this sort of 
thing?” said he, as he read the address. 

“ Stand what sort of thing? ” asked the other, half angrily. 

“Why, to be addressed in this fashion? The Honorable 
Richard Kearney, Trinity College, Dublin.” 

“It is from my sister,” said Kearney, as he took the 
letter impatiently from his hand ; “ and I can only tell you, 
if she had addressed me otherwise, I ’d not have opened her 
letter.” 

“But come now, old fellow, don’t lose temper about it. 
You have a right to this designation, or you have not — ” 

“I’ll spare all your eloquence by simply saying that I do 
not look on you as a Committee of Privilege, and I ’m not 
going to plead before you. Besides,” added he, “ it ’s only 
a few minutes ago you asked me to credit you for something 
you have not shown yourself to be, but that you intended 
and felt that the world should see you were one of these 
days.” 

“ So, then, you really mean to bring your claim before 
the Lords ? ” 

Kearney, if he heard, did not heed this question, but went 
on to read his letter. “ Here’s a surprise ! ” cried he. “I 
was telling you, the other day, about a certain cousin of 
mine we were expecting from Italy.” 

“ The daughter of that swindler, the mock prince?” 

“The man’s character I’ll not stand up for, but his rank 
and title are alike indisputable,” said Kearney, haughtily. 

“ With all my heart. We have soared into a high atmos- 
phere all this day, and I hope my respiration will get used 
to it in time. Read away ! ” 

It was not till after a considerable interval that Kearney 


AT “TRINITY.” 33 

had recovered composure enough to read, and when he did 
so it was with a brow furrowed with irritation: — 


“ Kilgobbin. 

“ My dear Dick, — We had just sat down to tea last night, and 
papa was fidgeting about the length of time his letter to Italy had 
remained unacknowledged, when a sharp ring at the house-door 
startled us. We had been hearing a good deal of searches for arms 
lately in the neighborhood, and we looked very blankly at each other 
for a moment. We neither of us said so, but 1 feel sure our thouo-hts 
were on the same track, and that we believed Captain Rock, or 
the head centre, or whatever be his latest title, had honored us 
with a call. Old Mathew seemed of the same mind too, for he 
appeared at the door with that venerable blunderbuss we have so 
often played with, and which, if it had any evil thoughts in its 
bead, 1 must have been tried for a murder years ago, for I know it 
was loaded since I was a child, but that the lock has for the same 
space of time not been on speaking terms with the barrel. While, 
then, thus confirmed in our suspicions of mischief by Mat’s warlike 
aspect, we both rose from the table, the door opened, and a young 
girl rushed in, and fell — actually threw herself into papa’s arms. 
It was Nina herself, who had come all the way from Rome alone, — 
that is, without any one she knew, and made her way to us here 
without any other guidance than her own good wits. 

“ 1 cannot tell you how delighted we are with her. She is the 
loveliest girl I ever saw, so gentle, so nicely mannered, so soft-voiced, 
and so winning — I feel myself like a peasant beside her. The 
least thing she says — her laugh, her slightest gesture, the way she 
moves about the room, with a sort of swinging grace, which I thought 
affected at first, but now I see is quite natural — is only another of 
her many fascinations. 

“ I fancied for a while that her features were almost too beautifully 
regular for expression, and that even when she smiled and showed 
her lovelv teeth, her eves got no increase of brightness : but as I 
talked more with her, and learned to know her better, I saw that 
those eyes have meanings of softness and depth in them of wonder- 
ful power, and, stranger than all, an archness that shows she has 
plenty of humor. 

“ Her English is charming, but slightly foreign ; and when she is 
at a loss for a word, there is just that much of difficulty in finding it 
which gives a heightened expression to her beautifully calm face, 
and makes it lovely. You may see how she has fascinated me, for I 
could go on raving about her for hours. 

“ She is very anxious to see you, and asks me over and over again, 

3 


34 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Shall you like her ? I was almost candid enough to say ‘ Too well.* 
I mean that you could not help falling in love with her, my dear 
Dick, and she is so much above us in style, in habit, and doubtless 
in ambition, that such would be only madness. When she saw 
your photo she smiled, and said, ‘Is he not superb ? — I mean 
])roud ? ’ I owned you were, and then she added, ‘ I hope he will like 
me.’ I am not perhaps discreet if I tell you she does not like the 
])ortrait of your chum, Atlee. She says ‘ he is very good-looking, 
very clever, very witty, but is n’t he false ? ’ and this she says over 
and over again. I told her I believed not ; that I had never seen 
him myself, but that I knew that you liked him greatly, and felt to 
him as a brother. She only shook her head, and said, ‘ Badate bene 
a quel che dico. I mean,' said she, ‘ 1 ’m right, but he ’s very nice 
for all that! ’ If I tell you this, Dick, it is just because I cannot 
get it out of my head, and I will keep saying over and over to my- 
self, ‘ If Joe Atlee be what she susj)ects, why does she call him 
very nice for all that ? ’ I said you intended to ask him down here 
next vacation, and she gave the drollest little laugh in the world, — 
and does she not look lovely when she shows those small pearly 
teeth ? Heaven help you, poor Dick, when you see her ! but, if I 
were you, I should leave Master Joe behind me, for she smiles as 
she looks at his likeness in a way that would certainly make me 
jealous, if I were only Joe’s friend, and not himself 

“ We sat up in Nina’s room till nigh morning, and to-day I have 
scarcely seen her, for she wants to be let sleep, after that long and 
tiresome journey, and I take the opportunity to write vou this very 
rambling epistle ; for you may feel sure I shall be less of a correspond- 
ent now than when I was without companionship, and I counsel you 
to be very grateful if you hear from me soon again. 

“ Papa wants to take Duggan’s farm from him, and Lanty Moore’s 
meadows, and throw them into the lawn ; but I hope he won’t persist 
in the plan ; not alone because it is a mere extravagance, but that 
the county is very unsettled just now about land-tenure, and the 
people are hoping all sorts of things from Parliament, and any 
interference with them at this time would be ill taken. Father 
Cody was here yesterday, and told me confidentially to prevent papa, 
— not so easy a thing as he thinks, particularly if he should come 
to suspect that any intimidation was intended, — and Miss O’Shea 
unfortunately said something the other day that papa cannot get out 
of his head, and keeps on repeating. ‘ So, then, it ’s our turn now,’ 
the fellows say ; ‘ the landlords have had five hundred years of it ; 
\t ’s time we should come in.’ And this he says over and over with 
a little laugh, and I wish to my heart Miss Betty had kept it to 
herself. By the way. her nephew is to come on leave, and pass two 
months with her ; and she says she hopes you will be here at the 


AT “TRINITY.” 


35 


same time, to keep him company ; but 1 have a notion that another 
playfellow may prove a dangerous rival to the Hungarian hussar ; 
perhaps, however, you would hand over Joe Atlee to him. 

“ Be sure you bring us some new books and some music when 
you come, or send them, if you don’t come soon. 1 am terrified lest 
Nina should think the place dreary, and I don’t know how she is to 
live here if she does not take to the vulgar drudgeries that fill my 
own life. When she abruptly asked me, ‘What do you do here?’ 
I was sorely puzzled to know what to answer, and then she added 
({uickly, — ‘ For my own part, it 's no great matter, for I can always 
dream I’m a great dreamer!’ Is it not lucky for her, Hick? 
She dl have ample time for it here. 

“ I suppose I never wrote so long a letter as this in my life ; 
indeed 1 never had a subject that had such a fascination for myself. 
Ho you know. Hick, that though I promised to let her sleep on till 
nigh dinner-time, 1 find myself every now and then creeping up 
gently to her door, and only bethink me of my pledge when my 
hand is on the lock ; and sometimes 1 even doubt if she is here at all, 
and I am half crazy at fearing it may be all a dream. 

“ One word for yourself, and I have done. Why have you not 
told us of the examination ? It was to have been on the tenth, and 
we are now at the eighteenth. Have you got — whatever it was? 
the prize, or the medal, or — the reward, in short, we were so anx- 
iously hoping for ? It would be such cheery tidings for poor papa, 
who is very low and depressed of late, and 1 see him always read- 
ing with such attention any notice of the College he can find in the 
newspaper. My dear, dear brother, how you would work hard if you 
only knew what a prize success in life might give you. Little as I 
have seen ©f her, I could sfuess that she will never bestow a thought 
on an undistinguished man. Come down for one day, and tell me 
if ever, in all your ambition, you had such a goal before you as 
this ? 

‘‘The hofTjrets I sent in to Tullamore fair were not sold; but I 
believe Miss Betty’s steward will take them; and, if so, 1 will send 
you ten pounds next week. 1 never knew the market so dull, and 
the English dealers now are only eager about horses, and I ’m sure 
I could n’t part with any if I had them. With all my love, I am 

“ Your ever affectionate sister, 

“ Kate Kearney. 

“ I have just stepped into Nina’s room and stolen the photo I 
send you. I suppose the dress must have been for some fancy ball ; 
hut she is a hundred million times more beautiful. I don’t know if 
I shall have the courage to confess my theft to her.” 


36 


LORD KILGOBBIN 


“Is that your sister, Dick?” said Joe Atlee, as young 
Kearney withdrew the carte from the letter, and placed it 
face downwards on the breakfast-table. 

“No,” replied he, bluntly, and continued to read on; 
while the other, in the spirit of that freedom that prevailed 
between them, stretched out his hand and took up the por- 
trait. 

“Who is this?” cried he, after some seconds. “She’s 
an actress. That’s something like what the girl wears in 
‘ Don Caesar de Bazan.’ To be sure, she’ is Maritana. She 's 
stunningly beautiful. Do you mean to tell me, Dick, that 
there’s a girl like that on your provincial boards?” 

“ I never said so, any more than 1 gave you leave to ex- 
amine the contents of my letters,” said the other, haughtily. 

“ Egad, 1 ‘d have smashed the seal any day to have caught 
a glimpse of such a face as that. I ’ll wager her eyes are 
blue-gray. Will you have a bet on it?” 

“ When you have done with your raptures, I ’ll thank you 
to hand the likeness to me.” 

“ But who is she? what is she? where is she? Is she the 
Greek?” 

“When a fellow can help himself so coolly to his informa- 
tion as you do, I scarcely think he deserves much aid from 
others ; but, I may tell you, she is not Maritana, nor a pro- 
vincial actress, nor any actress at all, but a young lady of 
good blood and birth, and my own first cousin.” 

“ On my oath, it ’s the best thing I ever knew of you.” 
Kearney laughed out at this moment at something in the 
letter, and did not hear the other’s remark. 

“It seems. Master Joe, that the young lady did not re- 
ciprocate the rapturous delight you feel, at sight of ^our 
picture. My sister sa}^s — I ’ll read you her very words — 
‘ she does not like the portrait of your friend Atlee ; he may 
be clever and amusing, she says, but he is undeniabl}' false,’ 
Mind that, — undeniably false,” 

“ That’s all the fault of the artist. The stupid dog would 
place me in so strong a light that I kept blinking.” 

“ No, no. She reads you like a book,” said the other. 

“ I wish to Heaven she would, if she would hold me like 


one. 


AT “TRINITY.” 


87 


“And the nice way she qualifies your cleverness, by call- 
ing ‘you amusing.” 

“ She could certainly spare that reproach to her cousin 
Dick,” said he, laughing; “but no more of this sparring. 
When do you mean to take me down to the country with 
you? The term will be up on Tuesday.” 

“ That will demand a little consideration now. In the fall 
of the year, perhaps. When the sun is less powerful, the 
light will be more favorable to your features.” 

“ My poor Dick, I cram you with good advice every day; 
but one counsel I never cease repeating, ‘ Never try, to be 
witty.’ A dull fellow only cuts ins finger with a joke ; he 
never catches it by the handle. Hand me over that letter of 
your sister’s ; I like the way she writes. All that about the 
pigs and the poultry is as good as the ‘ Farmer’s Chronicle.’ ” 
The other made no other reply than by coolly folding up 
the letter and placing it in his pocket ; and then, after a 
pause, he said, — 

“ I shall tell Miss Kearney the favorable impression her 
epistolary powers have produced on my very clever and 
accomplished chum, Mr. Atlee.” 

“ Do so; and say, if she’d take me for a correspondent 
instead of you, she’d be ^ exchanging with a difference.’ 
On my oath,” said he, seriously, “ I believe a most finished 
education might be effected in letter-writing. I ’d engage 
to take a clever girl through a whole course of Latin and 
Greek, and a fair share of mathematics and logic, in a series 
of letters, and her replies would be the fairest test of her 
acquirement.” 

“Shall I propose this" to my sister?” 

“Do so, or to your cousin. I suspect Maritana would be 
an apter pupil.” 

“The bell has stopped. We shall be late in the hall,” 
said Kearney, throwing on his gown hurriedly and hastening 
away; while Atlee, taking some proof-sheets from the 
chimney-piece, proceeded to correct them, a slight flicker 
of a smile still lingering over his dark but handsome face. 

Though such little jarring passages as that we have 
recorded were nothing uncommon between these two young 
men, they were very good friends on the whole; the very 


38 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


dissimilarity that provoked their squabbles saving them from 
any more serious rivalry. In reality, no two people could 
be less alike: Kearney being a slow, plodding, self-satisfied, 
dull man, of very ordinary faculties; while the other was an 
indolent, discursive, sharp-witted fellow, mastering what- 
ever he addressed himself to with ease, but so enamoured of 
novelty that he rarely went beyond a smattering of anything. 
He carried away college honors apparently at will, and 
might, many thought, have won a fellowship with little 
effort; but his passion was for change. Whatever bore 
upon the rogueries of letters, the frauds of literature, had an 
irresistible charm for him; and he once declared that he 
would almost rather have been Ireland than Shakspeare; and 
then it was his delight to write Greek versions of a poem 
that might attach the mark of plagiarism to Tennyson, or 
show, by a Scandinavian lyric, how the laureate had been 
poaching from the Northmen. Now it was a mock pastoral 
in most ecclesiastical Latin that set the whole Church in 
arms ; now a mock despatch of Baron Beust that actually 
deceived the “Revue des Deux Mondes ” and caused quite 
a panic at the Tuileries. He had established such relations 
wdth foreign journals that he could at any moment command 
insertion for a paper, — now in the “Memorial Diploma- 
tique,” now in the “Golos ” of St. Petersburg, or the “Allge- 
meine Zeitung ; ” while the comment, written also by himself, 
would appear in the “Kreutz Zeitung” or the “Times;” 
and the mystification became such that the shrewdest and 
keenest heads were constantly misled, to which side to 
incline in a controversy where all the wires were pulled by 
one hand. INIany a discussion on the authenticity of a 
document or the veracity of a conversation would take place 
between the two young men ; Kearney not having the vaguest 
suspicion that the author of the point in debate was then 
sitting opposite to him, sometimes seeming to share the very 
doubts and difficulties that were then puzzling himself. 

While Atlee knew Kearney in every fold and fibre of 
his nature, Kearney had not the very vaguest conception of 
him with whom he sat every day at meals, and communed 
through almost every hour of his life. He treated Joe, 
indeed, with a sort of proud protection, thinking him a 


39 


AT “TRINITY/’ 

sharp, clever, idle fellow, who would never come to any- 
thing higher than a bookseller’s hack or an “occasional 
correspondent.” He liked his ready speech and his fun, 
but he would not consent to see in either evidences of any- 
thing beyond the amusing qualities of a very light intelli- 
gence. On the whole, he looked down upon him, as very 
properly the slow and ponderous people in life do look down 
upon their more volatile brethren, and vote them triflers. 
Long may it be so! There would be more sunstrokes in 
the world if it were not that the shadows of dull men 
made such nice cool places for the others to walk in! 


CHAPTER V. 


HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 

The life of that quaint old country house was something 
very strange and odd to Nina Kostalergi. It was not 
merely its quiet monotony, its unbroken sameness of topics 
as of events, and its small economies, always appearing on 
the surface; but that a young girl like Kate, full of life and 
spirits, gay, handsome, and high-hearted, — that she should 
go her mill-round of these tiresome daily cares, listening to 
the same complaints, remedying the same evils, meeting the 
same difficulties, aud yet never seem to resent an existence 
so ignoble and unworthy! This was, indeed, scarce 
credible. 

As for Nina herself, — like one saved from shipwreck, — 
her first sense of security was full of gratitude. It was only 
as this wore off that she began to see the desolation of the 
rock on which she had clambered. Not that her former life 
had been rose-tinted. It had been of all things the most 
harassing and wearying, — a life of dreary necessitude, a 
perpetual struggle with debt. Except play, her father had 
scarcely any resource for a livelihood. He affected, indeed, 
to give lessons in Italian and French to young Englishmen; 
but he was so fastidious as to the rank and condition of his 
pupils, so unaccommodating as to his hours, and so unpunc- 
tual, that it was evident that the whole was a mere pretence 
of industry, to avoid the reproach of being utterly dependent 
on the play-table; besides this, in his capacity as a teacher 
he obtained access to houses and acceptance with families 
where he would have found entrance impossible under other 
circumstances. 

He was polished and good-looking. All his habits bespoke 
familiarity with society; and he knew to the nicest fraction 


HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 


41 


the amount of intimacy he might venture on with any one. 
Some did not like him ; the man of a questionable position, 
the reduced gentleman, has terrible prejudices to combat. 
He must always be suspected, — Heaven knows of what, 
but of some covert design against the religion or the 
pocket, or the influence of those who admit him. Some 
thought him dangerous because his manners were insinuat- 
ing, and his address studiously directed to captivate. 
Others did not fancy his passion for mixing in the world, 
and frequenting society to which his straitened means 
appeared to deny him rightful access; but when he had 
succeeded in introducing his daughter to the world, and 
people began to say, ‘‘See how admirably M. Kostalergi 
has brought up that girl ! how nicely mannered she is, how 
lady-like, how well bred, what a linguist, what a musician! ” 
a complete revulsion took place in public opinion, and many 
who had but half trusted, or less than liked him before, 
became now his stanchest friends and adherents, Nina 
had been a great success in society, and she reaped the full 
benefit of it. Sufficiently well born to be admitted, without 
any special condescension, into good houses, she was in 
manner and style the equal of any; and though her dress 
was ever of the cheapest and plainest, her fresh toilette 
was often commented on with praise by those who did not 
fully remember what added grace and elegance the wearer 
had lent it. 

From the wealthy nobles to whom her musical genius had 
strongly recommended her, numerous and sometimes costly 
presents were sent in acknowledgment of her charming gifts; 
and these, as invariably, were converted into money by her 
father, who, after a while, gave it to be understood that the 
recompense would be always more welcome in that form. 

Nina, however, for a long time knew nothing of this; she 
saw herself sought after and flattered in society, selected 
for peculiar attention wherever she went, com])rnnented on 
her acquirements, and made much of to an extent that not 
unfrequently excited the envy and jealousy of girls much 
more favorably placed by fortune than herself. It her long 
mornings and afternoons were passed amidst solitude and 
poverty, vulgar cares, and harassing importunities, when 


42 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


night came she emerged into the blaze of lighted lustres and 
gilded salons, to move in an atmosphere of splendor 
and sweet sounds, with all that could captivate the senses 
and exalt imagination. This twofold life of meanness and 
magnificence so wrought upon her nature as to develop 
almost two individualities, — the one hard, stern, realistic, 
even to grudgingness ; the other gay, buoyant, enthusiastic, 
and ardent; and they who only saw her of an evening in all 
the exultation of her flattered beauty, followed about by a 
train of admiring worshippers, addressed in all that exag- 
geration of language Italy sanctions, pampered by caresses, 
and honored by homage on every side, little knew by what 
dreary torpor of heart and mind that joyous ecstasy they 
witnessed had been preceded, nor by what a bound her 
emotions had sprung from the depths of brooding melancholy 
to this paroxysm of delight; nor could the worn-out and 
wearied followers of pleasure comprehend the intense enjoy- 
ment produced by sights and sounds which in their case no 
fancy idealized, no soaring imagination had lifted to the 
heaven of bliss. 

Kostalergi seemed for a while to content himself with the 
secret resources of his daughter’s successes; but at length 
he launched out into heavy play once more, and lost largely. 
It was in this strait that he bethought him of negotiating 
with a theatrical manager for Nina’s appearance on the 
stage. These contracts take the precise form of a sale, 
where the victim, in consideration of being educated and 
maintained, and paid a certain amount, is bound — legally 
bound — to devote her services to a master for a given time. 
The impresario of the Fenice had often heard from travellers 
of that wonderful mezzo-soprano voice which was captivat- 
ing all Rome, where the beauty and grace of the singer were 
extolled not less loudly. The great skill of these astute pro- 
viders for the world’s pleasure is evidenced in nothing more 
remarkably than the instinctive quickness with which they 
pounce upon the indications of dramatic genius, and hasten 
away — half across the globe if need be — to secure it. 
Signor Lanari was not slow to procure a letter of introduc- 
tion to Kostalergi, and very soon acquainted him with his 
object. 


HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 


43 


Under the pretence that he was an old friend and former 
schoolfellow, Kostalergi asked him to share their humble 
dinner, and there, in that meanly furnished room, and with 
the accompaniment of a wretched and jangling instrument, 
Nina so astonished and charmed him by her performance, 
that all the habitual reserve of the cautious baroaiuer gave 
way, and he burst out into exclamations of enthusiastic 
delight, ending with, — “She is mine! she is mine! I tell 
you, since Persiani, there has been nothing like her! ” 

Nothing remained now but to reveal the plan to herself; 
and though certainly neither the Greek nor his guest were 
deficient in descriptive power, or failed to paint in glowing 
colors the gorgeous processions of triumphs that await 
stage success, she listened with little pleasure to it all. She 
had already walked the boards of what she thought a higher 
arena. She had tasted flatteries unalloyed with any sense 
of decided inferiority; she had moved amongst dukes and 
duchesses with a recognized station, and received their 
compliments with ease and dignity. Was all this reality 
of condition to be exchanged for a mock splendor and a 
feigned greatness? was she to be subjected to the licensed 
stare and criticism and coarse comment, it may be, of hun- 
dreds she never knew, nor would stoop to know? and was 
the adulation she now lived in to be bartered for the vulgar 
applause of those who, if dissatisfied, could testify the feel- 
ing as openly and unsparingly? She said very little of 
what she felt in her heart; but no sooner alone in her room 
at night than she wrote that letter to her uncle entreating 
his protection. 

It had been arranged with Lanari that she should make 
one appearance at a small provincial theatre so soon as she 
could master any easy part; and Kostalergi, having some 
acquaintance with .the manager at Orvieto, hastened off 
there to obtain his permission for her appearance. It was 
of this brief absence she profited to fly from Rome, the 
banker conveying her as far as Civita Vecchia, whence she 
sailed direct for Marseilles. And now we see her, as she 
found herself in that dreary old mansion, sad, silent, and 
neglected, wondering whether the past was all a dream, or if 
the unbroken calm in which she now lived was not a sleep. 


44 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Conceding her perfect liberty to pass her time how she 
liked, they exacted from her no appearance at meals, nor 
any conformity with the ways of others, and she never 
came to breakfast, and only entered the drawing-room a 
short time before dinner. Kate, who had counted on her 
companionship and society, and hoped to see her sharing 
with her the little cares and duties of her life, and taking 
interest in her pursuits, was sorely grieved at her estrange- 
ment, but continued to believe it would wear off with time 
and familiarity with the place. Kearney himself, m secret, 
resented the freedom with which she disregarded the disci- 
pline of his house, and grumbled at times over foreign ways 
and habits that he had no fancy to see under his roof. 
When she did appear, however, her winning manners, her 
grace, and a certain half-caressing coquetry she could prac- 
tise to perfection, so soothed and amused him that he soon 
forgot any momentary displeasure, and more than once 
gave up his evening visit to the club at Moate to listen to 
her as she sang, or hear her sketch off some trait of that 
Roman society in which British pretension and eccentricity 
often figured so amusingly. 

Like a faithful son of the Church, too, he never wearied 
hearing of the Pope and of the Cardinals, of glorious 
ceremonials of the Church, and festivals observed with all 
the pomp and state that pealing organs, and incense, and 
gorgeous dress could confer. The contrast between the 
sufferance under which his Church existed at home and the 
honors and homage rendered to it abroad, were a fruitful 
stimulant to that disaffection he felt towards England, and 
would not unfrequently lead him away to long diatribes 
about penal laws and the many disabilities which had 
enslaved Ireland, and reduced himself, the descendant of a 
princely race, to the condition of a ruined gentleman. 

To Kate these complainings were ever distasteful; she 
had but one philosophy, which was “to bear up well,’’ and 
when not that, “as well as you could.” She saw scores of 
things around her to be remedied, or, at least, bettered, by 
a little exertion, and not one which could be helped by a 
vain regret. For the loss of that old barbaric splendor and 
profuse luxury which her father mourned over, she had no 


HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 


45 


regrets. She knew that these wasteful and profligate livers 
had done nothing for the people either in act or in example; 
that they ^eie a selfish, worthless, self-indulgent race, caring 
for nothing but their pleasures, and making all their patri- 
otism consist in a hate towards Eimland. 

O 

These were not Nina’s thoughts. She liked all these 
stoiies of a time of power and might, when the Kearneys 
were great chieftains, and the old castle the scene of 
revelry and feasting. 

She drew prettily, and it amused her to illustrate the 
curious tales the old man told her of rays and forays, the 
wild old life of savage chieftains and the scarce less savage 
conquerors. On one of these — she called it “The Return 
of O’Caharney ” — she bestowed such labor and study that 
her uncle would sit for hours watching the work, not know- 
ing if his heart were more stirred by the claim of his ances- 
tor’s greatness, or by the marvellous skill that realized the 
whole scene before him. The head of the young chieftain 
was to be filled in when Dick came home. Meanwhile great 
persuasions were being used to induce Peter Gill to sit for 
a kern who had shared the exile of his masters, but had 
afterwards betrayed them to the English; and whether Gill 
had heard some dropping word of the part he was meant to 
fill, or that his own suspicion had taken alarm from certain 
directions the young lady gave as to the expression he was 
to assume, certain is it nothing could induce him to comply, 
and go down to posterity with the immortality of crime. 

The little long-neglected drawing-room where Nina had 
set up her easel became now the usual morning lounge of the 
old man, who loved to sit and watch her as she worked, 
and, what amused him even more, listen while she talked. 
It seemed to him like a revival of the past to hear of the 
world, — that gay world of feasting and enjoyment of which 
for so many years he had known nothing; and here he was 
back in it again, and with grander company and higher 
names than he ever remembered. “ Why was not Kate like 
her? ” would he mutter over and over to himself. Kate was 
a good girl, fine-tempered and happy-hearted, but she had 
no accomplishments, none of those refinements of the other. 
If he wanted to present her at “ the Castle ” one of these 


46 


LORD KILGOBBIN. • 


days, he did not know if she would have tact enough for the 
ordeal; but Nina! — Nina was sure to make an actual sen- 
sation, as much by her grace and her style as by her 
beauty. Kearney never came into the room where she was 
without being struck by the elegance of her demeanor, the 
way she would rise to receive him, her step, her carriage, 
the very disposal of her drapery as she sat; the modulated 
tone of her voice, and a sort of purring satisfaction as she 
took his hand and heard his praises of her, spread like a 
charm over him, so that he never knew how the time slipped 
by as he sat beside her. 

“Have you ever written to your father since you came 
here? ” asked he one day as they talked together. 

“Yes, sir; and yesterday I got a letter from him. Such 
a nice letter, sir, — no complainings, no reproaches for my 
running away; but all sorts of good wishes for my happi- 
ness. He owns he was sorry to have ever thought of the 
stage for me; but he says this lawsuit he is engaged in 
about his grandfather’s will may last for years, and that he 
knew I was so certain of a great success, and that a great 
success means more than mere money, he fancied that in 
my triumph he would reap the recompense for his own dis- 
asters. He is now, however, far happier that I have found 
a home, — a real home, — and says, ‘ Tell my Lord I am 
heartily ashamed of all my rudeness with regard to him, 
and would willingly make a pilgrimage to the end of Europe 
to ask his pardon ; ’ and say besides that ‘ when I shall be 
restored to the fortune and rank of my ancestors, ’ — you 
know,” added she, “he is a prince, my first act will be 
to throw myself at his feet, and beg to be foro-iven by 
him.’” 

What is the property ? is it land ? ” asked he, with the 
half-suspectfulness of one not fully assured of what he was 
listening to. 

\ es, sir; the estate is in Delos. I have seen the plan 
of the grounds and gardens of the Palace, which are 
princely. Here, on this seal,” said she, showing the enve- 
lope of her letter, “you can see the arms; papa never omits 
to use it, though on his card he is written only ‘ of the 
princes,’ — a form observed with us.” 


HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 


47 


And what chance has he of getting it all back again ? ’ 

“That is more than 1 can tell you; he himself is some- 
times very confident, and talks as if there could not be a 
doubt of it.” 

“Used your poor mother to believe it?” asked he, half 
tremulously. 

“I can scarcely say, sir; 1 can barely remember her; but 
I have heard papa blame her for not interesting her high 
connections in England in his suit; he often thought that a 
word to the ambassador at Athens would have almost 
decided the case.” 

“High conuections, indeed!” burst he forth. “By my 
conscience, they ’re pretty much out at elbows, like himself; 
and if we were trying to recover our own right to-morrow, 
the look-out would be bleak enough! ” 

“Papa is not easily cast down, sir; he has a very san- 
guine spirit.” 

“Maybe you think it’s what is w^anting in my case, eh, 
Nina? Say it out, girl; tell me I’d be the better for a 
little of your father’s hopefulness, eh? ” 

“You could not change to anything I could like better 
than what you are,” said she, taking his hand and kissing 
it. 

“Ah, you’re a rare one to say coaxing things,” said he, 
looking fondly on her. “I believe you ’d be the best advo- 
cate for either of us if the courts wmuld let you plead 
for us.” 

“I wish they would, sir,” said she, proudly. 

“What is that? ” cried he, suddenly; “sure it ’s not put- 
ting myself you are in the picture! ” 

“Of course I am, sir. Was not the O’Caharney your 
ancestor? Is it likely that an old race had not traits of 
feature and lineament that ages of descent could not efface? 
I ’d swear that strong brow and frank look must be an 
heirloom.” 

“Faith, then, almost the only one!” said he, sighing. 
“Who ’s making that noise out there? ” said he, rising and 
going to the window. “Oh, it ’s Kate with her dogs. I 
often tell her she ’d keep a pair of ponies for less than 
those troublesome brutes cost her.” 


48 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“They are great company to her, she says, and she lives 
so much in the open air.” 

“I know she does,” said he, dropping his head and 
sitting like one whose thoughts had taken a brooding, 
despondent turn. 

“One more sitting I must have, sir, for the hair. You 
had it beautifully yesterday; it fell over on one side with a 
most perfect light on a large lock here. Will you give me 
half an hour to-morrow, say ? ” 

“I can’t promise you, dear. Peter Gill has been 
urging me to go over to Loughrea for the fair; and if we go 
we ought to be there by Saturday, and have a quiet look at 
the stock before the sales begin.” 

“And are you going to be long away?” said she, pout- 
ingly, as she leaned over the back of his chair, and suffered 
her curls to fall half across his face. 

“I ’ll be right glad to be back again,” said he, pressing 
her head down till he could kiss her cheek, — “right glad! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE “blue goat.” 

The “Blue Goat” in the small town of Moate is scarcely a 
model hostel. The entrance-hall is too much encumbered 
by tramps and beggars of' various orders and ages, who not 
only resort there to take their meals and play at cards, but 
to divide the spoils and settle the accounts of their several 
“industries,” and occasionally to clear off other scores 
which demand police interference. On the left is the bar; 
the right-hand being used as the otlice of a land-agent, is 
besieged by crowds of country people, in whom, if language 
is to be trusted, the grievous wrongs of land-tenure are pain- 
fully portrayed, — nothing but complaint, dogged determina- 
tion, and resistance being heard on every side. Behind the 
bar is a long low-ceilinged apartment, the parlor par excel- 
lence^ only used by distinguished visitors, and reserved on one 
especial evening of the week for the meeting of the “ Goats,” 
as the members of a club call themselves; the chief, indeed 
the founder, being our friend Mathew Kearney, whose title 
of sovereignty was “Buck-Goat,” and whose portrait, 
painted by a native artist and presented by the society, 
figured over the mantelpiece. The village Vandyke would 
seem to have invested largely in carmine, and though far 
from parsimonious of it on the cheeks and the nose of his 
sitter, he was driven to work off some of his superabundant 
stock on the cravat, and even the hands, which, though 
amicably crossed in front of the white-waistcoated stomach, 
are fearfully suggestive of some recent deed of blood. The 
pleasant geniality of the countenance is, however, reassuring. 
Nor — except a decided squint, by which the artist had 
ambitiously attempted to convey a humoristic drollery to the 
expression — is there anything sinister in the portrait. 

4 


50 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


An inscription on the frame annnounces that this picture 
of their respected founder was presented, on his fiftieth 
birthday, “To Mathew Kearney, sixth Viscount Kiigob- 
bin;” various devices of “caprine” significance, heads, 
horns, and hoofs, profusely decorating the frame. If the 
antiquarian should lose himself in researches for the origin 
of this society, it is as well to admit at once that the land- 
lord’s sign of the “Blue Goat” gave the initiative to the 
name, and that the worthy associates derived nothing from 
classical authority, and never assumed to be descendants of 
fauns or satyrs, but respectable shopkeepers of Moate, and 
unexceptional judges of “poteen.” A large jug of this 
insinuating liquor figured on the table, and was called 
“Goat’s-milk ; ” and if these humoristic traits are so care- 
fully enumerated, it is because they comprised all that was 
specially droll or quaint in these social gatherings, the 
members of which were a very commonplace set of men, 
who discussed their little local topics in very ordinary fash- 
ion, slightly elevated, perhaps, in self-esteem, by thinking 
how little the outer world knew of their dulness and 
dreariness. 

As the meetings were usually determined on by the will of 
the president, who announced at the hour of separation when 
they were to reassemble, and as, since his niece’s arrival, 
Kearney had almost totally forgotten his old associates, the 
club-room ceased to be regarded as the holy of holies, and 
was occasionally used by the landlord for the reception of 
such visitors as he deemed worthy of peculiar honor. 

It was on a very wet night of that especially rainy month 
in the Irish calendar — July — that two travellers sat over a 
turf-fire in this sacred chamber, various articles of their 
attire being spread out to dry before the blaze, the owners 
of which actually steamed with the effects of the heat upon 
their damp habiliments. Some fishing-tackle and two knap- 
sacks, which lay in a corner, showed they were pedestrians ; 
and their looks, voice, and manner proclaimed them still 
more unmistakably to be gentlemen. 

One was a tall, sunburned, soldier-like man of six or 
seven and thirty, powerfully built, and with that solidity of 
gesture and firmness of tread sometimes so marked with 


THE “BLUE GOAT.” 


51 


strong men. A mere glance at him showed he was a cold, 
silent, somewhat haughty man, not given to hasty resolves 
or in any way impulsive; and it is just possible that a long 
accjuaintance with him would not have revealed a great deal 
more. He had served in a half-dozen regiments; and 
although all declared that Henry Lockwood was an honor- 
able fellow, a good soldier, and thoroughly “safe,” — a very 
meaning epithet, — there were no very deep regrets when he 
“exchanged,” nor was there, perhaps, one man who felt he 
had lost his “pal” by his going. He was now in the 
Carbineers, and serving as an extra aide-de-camp to the 
Viceroy. 

Not a little unlike him in most respects was the man 
w’ho sat opposite him, — a pale, finely featured, almost 
effeminate-looking young fellow, with a small line of dark 
mustache, and a beard en Henri Quatre^ to the effect of 
which a collar cut in Vandyke fashion gave an especial 
significance. Cecil Walpole was disposed to be pictorial in 
his get-up, and the purple dye of his knickerbocker stock- 
ings, the slouching plumage of his Tyrol hat, and the grace- 
ful hang of his jacket, had excited envy in quarters where 
envy was fame. He, too, was on the viceregal staff, being 
private secretary to his relative the Lord Lieutenant, during 
whose absence in England they had undertaken a ramble to 
the Westmeath lakes, not very positive whether their object 
was to angle for trout or to fish for that “knowledge of 
Ireland ” so popularly sought after in our day, and which 
displays itself so profusely in platform speeches and letters 
to the “Times;” Lockwood, not impossibly, would have 
said it was “to do a bit of walking” he had come. He had 
gained eight pounds by that indolent Phoenix-Park life he 
w’as leading, and he had no fancy to go back to Leicester- 
shire too heavy for his cattle. He was not — few hunting 
men are — an ardent fisherman ; and as for the vexed ques- 
tion of Irish politics, he did not see why he was to trouble 
his head to unravel the puzzles that were too much for Mr. 
Gladstone; not to say, that he felt to meddle with these 
matters was like interfering wdth another man’s department. 
“I don’t suspect,” he would say, “I should fancy John 
Bright coming down to ‘ stables ’ and dictating to me how 


52 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


my Irish horses should be shod, or what was the best bit 
for a ‘borer.’ ” He saw, besides, that the game of politics 
was a game of compromises. Something was deemed 
admirable now that had been hitherto almost execrable ; and 
that which was utterly impossible to-day, if done last year 
would have been a triumphant success, and consequently he 
pronounced the whole thing an “imposition and a humbug.” 
“1 can understand a right and a wrong as well as any man,” 
he would say, “ but 1 know nothing about things that are 
neither or both, according to who ’s in or who ’s out of the 
Cabinet. Give me the command of twelve thousand men, 
let me divide them into three flying columns, and if I don’t 
keep Ireland quiet, draft me into a West Indian regiment, 
that ’s all.” And as to the idea of issuing special commis- 
sions, passing new Acts of Parliament, or suspending old 
ones, to do what he or any other intelligent soldier could do 
without any knavery or any corruption, “John Bright 
might tell us,” but he could n’t. And here it may be well to 
observe that it was a favorite form of speech with him to 
refer to this illustrious public man in this familiar maimer; 
but always to show what a condition of muddle and confu- 
sion must ensue if we followed the counsels that name 
emblematized; nor did he know a more cutting sarcasm to 
reply to an adversary than when he had said, “Oh, John 
Bright would agree with you,” or, “I don’t think .lohu 
Bright could go further.” 

Of a very different stamp was his companion. He was a 
young gentleman whom we cannot more easily characterize 
than by calling him, in the cant of the day, “of the period.” 
He was essentially the most recent product of the age we 
live in. Manly enough in some things, he was fastidious 
in others to the very verge of effeminacy; an aristocrat by 
birth and by predilection, he made a parade of democratic 
opinions. He affected a sort of Crichtonism in the variety 
of his gifts, and as linguist, musician, artist, poet, and 
philosopher, loved to display the scores of things he might 
be, instead of that mild, very ordinary young gentleman that 
he was. He had done a little of almost everything; he had 
been in the Guards, in diplomacy, in the House for a brief 
session, had made an African tour, written a pleasant little 


THE “BLUE GOAT.” 


53 


book about the Nile, with the illustrations by his own hand. 
Still he was greater in promise than performance. There 
was an opera of his partly finished ; a five-act comedy almost 
ready for the stage; a half-executed group, he had left in 
some studio in Rome, showed what he might have done in 
sculpture. When his distinguished relative the Marquis of 
Danesbury recalled him from his post as secretary of lega- 
tion in Italy, to join him at his Irish seat of government, 
the phrase in which he invited him to return is not without 
its significance, and we give it as it occurred in the con- 
text; “1 have no fancy for the post they have assigned 
me, nor is it what I had hoped for. They say, however, 
I shall succeed here. JVous verrons. Meanwhile I remem- 
ber your often remarking, ‘ There is a great game to be 
played in Ireland.’ Come over at once, then, and let me 
have a talk with you over it. I shall manage the question 
of your leave by making you private secretary for the 
moment. We shall have many difficulties, but Ireland 
will be the worst of them. Do not delay, therefore; for I 
shall only go over to be sworn in, etc., and return for the 
third reading of the Church Bill, and I should like to see 
you in Dublin (and leave you there) wTeu I go.” 

Except that they were both members of the household, 
and English by birth, there was scarcely a tie between these 
very dissimilar natures; but somehow the accidents of daily 
life, stronger than the traits of disposition, threw them into 
intimacy, and they agreed it w'ould be a good thing “to see 
something of Ireland; ” and with this wise resolve they had 
set out on that half-fishing" excursion, which, having taken 
them over the Westmeath lakes, now was directing them to 
the Shannon, but with an infirmity of purpose to which 
lack of sport and disastrous weather were contributing 
powerfully at the moment we have presented them to our 
reader. 

To employ the phrase which it is possible each might 
have used, they “liked each other well enough,” — that is, 
each found something in the other he “ could get on with ; 
but there was no stronger tie of regard or friendship be- 
tween them, and eacli thought he perceived some flaw of 
pretension, or affected wisdom, or selfishness, or vanit}^ in 


54 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


the other; and actually believed he amused himself by its 
display. In natures, tastes, and dispositions they were 
miles asunder, and disagreement between them would have 
been unceasing on every subject, had they not been gentle- 
men, It wms this alone — this gentleman element — made 
their companionship possible, and, in the long run, not 
unpleasant. So much more has good breeding to do in the 
common working of daily life than the more valuable qual- 
ities of mind and temperament. 

Though much younger than his companion, Walpole took 
the lead in all the arrangements of the journey, determined 
w'here and how long they should halt, and decided on the 
route next to be taken ; the other showing a real or affected 
indifference on all these matters, and making of his town- 
bred apathy a very serviceable quality in the midst of Irish 
barbarism and desolation. On politics, too, — if that be 
the name for such light convictions as they entertained, — 
they differed; the soldier’s ideas being formed on what he 
fancied would be the late Duke of Wellington’s opinion, 
and consisted in what he called “putting down.” Walpole 
was a promising Whig ; that is, one who coquets with Rad- 
ical notions, but fastidiously avoids contact with the mob; 
and who, fervently believing that all popular concessions 
are spurious if not stamped wdth Whig approval, would like 
to treat the democratic leaders as forgers and knaves. 

If, then, there wms not much of similarity between these 
two men to attach them to each other, there was what served 
for a bond of union: they belonged to the same class in life, 
and used pretty nigh the same forms for their expression of 
like and dislike; and as in traffic it contributes wonderfully 
to the facilities of business to use the same money, so in 
the common intercourse of life wdll the habit to estimate 
things at the same value conduce to very easy relations, 
and something almost like friendship. 

While they sat over the fire awaiting their supper, each 
had lighted a cigar, busying himself from time to time in 
endeavoring to dry some drenched article of dress, or 
extracting from damp and dripping pockets their several 
contents. 

“This, then,” said the younger man, — “this is the pic- 


THE “BLUE GOAT.” 


55 


turesque Ireland our tourist writers tell us of ; and the laud 
where the ‘ Times ’ says the traveller will find more to in- 
terest him than in the Tyrol or the Oberland.” 

“What about the climate? ” said the other, in a deep bass 
voice. 

“Mild and moist, I believe, are the epithets; that is, it 
makes you damp and it keeps you so.” 

“ And the inns? ” 

“The inns, it is admitted, might be better; but the trav- 
eller is admonished against fastidiousness, and told that the 
prompt spirit of obligeance, the genial cordiality he will 
meet with are more than enough to repay him for the want 
of more polished habits and mere details of comfort and 
convenience.” • 

“Rotten humbug! I don’t want cordiality from my 
innkeeper.” 

“I should think not! As, for instance, a bit of carpet 
in this room would be worth more than all the courtesy that 
showed us in.” 

“What was that lake called, — the first place I mean?” 
asked Lockwood. 

“Lough Brin. I should n’t say but with better weather it 
might be pretty.” 

A half grunt of dissent was all the reply, and Walpole 
went on, — 

“It ’s no use painting a landscape when it is to be 
smudged all over with Indian ink. There are no tints in 
mountains swathed in mist, no color in trees swamped with 
moisture; everything seems so imbued with damp, one 
fancies it would take two years in the tropics to dry 
Ireland.” 

“ I asked that fellow who showed us the way here, why he 
did n’t pitch off those wet rags he wore and walk away in 
all the dignity of nakedness.” 

A large dish of rashers and eggs, and a mess of Irish 
stew, which the landlord now placed on the table, with a 
foaming jug of malt, seemed to rally them out of their ill- 
temper; and for some time they talked away in a more 
cheerful tone. 

“Better than I hoped for,” said Walpole. 


56 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Fair!” 

“And that ale, too, — 1 suppose it is called ale, — is very 
tolerable.” 

“It’s downright good. Let us have some more of it.” 
And he shouted, “Master! ” at the top of his voice. “More 
of this,” said Lockwood, touching the measure. “Beer or 
ale; which is it? ” 

“Castle Bellingham, sir,” replied the landlord; “beats all 
the Bass and Allsopp that ever was brewed.” 

“You think so, eh? ” 

“I’m sure of it, sir. The club that sits here had a debate 
on it one night, and put it to the vote; and there was n’t 
one man for the English liquor. My Lord there,” said he, 
pointing to the portrait, “sent an account of it all to 
Saunders’ newspaper.” 

While he left the room to fetch the ale, the travellers both 
fixed their eyes on the picture; and Walpole, rising, read 
out the inscription, — “Viscount Kilgobbin.” 

“There ’s no such title,” said the other, bluntly. 

“Lord Kilgobbin — Kilgobbin? Where did, I hear that 
name before?” 

“In a dream, perhaps.” 

“No, no. I have heard it, if I could only remember 
where and how! I say, landlord, where does his Lordship 
live? ” and he pointed to the portrait. 

“Beyond, at the castle, sir. You can see it from the 
door without wdien the weather ’s fine.” 

“ That must mean on a very rare occasion ! ” said Lock- 
wood, gravely. 

“No, indeed, sir. It did n’t begin to rain on Tuesday 
last till after three o’clock.” 

“Magnificent climate!” exclaimed Walpole, enthusias- 
tically. 

“It is indeed, sir. Glory be to God! ” said the landlord, 
with an honest gravity that set them both off laughing. 

“How about this club, — does it meet often? ” 

“It used, sir, to meet every Thursday evening, and my 
Lord never missed a night; but quite lately he took it in 
his head not to come out in the evenings. Some say it was 
the rheumatism, and more says it ’s the unsettled state of 
the country; though, the Lord be praised for it, there 


THE “BLUE GOAT/’ 


57 


was n t a man fired at in the neighborhood since Easter, 
and he was a peeler.” 

“ One of the constabulary? ” 

“Yes, sir; a dirty, mean chap, that was looking after a 
poor boy that set fire to Mr. Hagin’s ricks, and that was over 
a year ago.” 

“And naturally forgotten by this time?” 

“ By coorse it was forgotten. Quid Mat Hagin got a pre- 
sentment for the damage out of the grand jury, and nobody 
was the worse for it at all.” 

“ And so the club is smashed, eh?” 

“As good as smashed, sir; for whenever any of them 
comes now of an evening, he just goes into the bar and 
takes his glass there.” 

He sighed heavily as he said this, and seemed overcome 
with sadness. 

“I’m trying to remember why the name is so familiar to 
me. I know I have heard of Lord Kilgobbin before,” said 
Walpole. 

“ May be so,” said the landlord, respectfully. “ You may 
have read in books how it was at Kilgobbin Castle, King 
James came to stop after the Boyne; that he held a ‘ coort’ 
there in the big drawing-room, — they call it the ‘ throne- 
room ’ ever since, — and slept two nights at the castle 
afterwards ? ” 

“ That’s something to see, Walpole,” said Lockwood. 

“ So it is. How is that to be managed, landlord? Does 
his Lordship permit strangers to visit the castle?” 

“ Nothing easier than that, sir,” said the host, who gladly 
embraced a project that should detain his guests at the 
inn. “ My Lord went through the town this morning, on 
his way to Loughrea fair ; but the young ladies is at 
home ; and you ’ve only to send over a message, and say 
you ’d like to see the place, and they ’ll be proud to show 
it to you.” 

“ Let us send our cards, with a line in pencil,” said Wal- 
pole, in a whisper to his friend. 

“ And there are young ladies there? ” asked Lockwood. 

“Two born beauties; it’s hard to say which is hand- 
somest,” replied the host, overjoyed at the attraction his 
neighborhood possessed. 


58 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I suppose that will do?” said Walpole, showing what he 
had written on his card. 

‘'Yes, perfectly.” 

“Despatch this at once. I mean early to-morrow ; and 
let your messenger ask if there be an answer. How far is 
it off?” 

“A little over twelve miles, sir; but I’ve a mare in the 
stable will ‘ rowle ’ ye over in an hour and a quarter.” 

“ All right. We ’ll settle on everything after breakfast 
to-morrow.” And the landlord withdrew, leaving them once 
more alone. 

“This means,” said Lockwood, drearily, “we shall have 
to pass a day in this wretched place.” 

“ It will take a day to dry our wet clothes ; and, all things 
considered, one might be worse off than here. Besides, I 
shall want to look over my notes. I have done next to 
nothing, up to this time, about the Land Question.” 

“ I thought that the old fellow with the cow, the fellow I 
gave a cigar to, had made you up in your tenant-right 
affair,” said Lockwood. 

“He gave me a great deal of very valuable information; 
he exposed some of the evils of tenancy at will as ably as I 
ever heard them treated, but he was occasionally hard on 
the landlord.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose one word of truth never came out of his 
mouth ! ” 

“ On the contrary, real knowledge of Ireland is not to be 
acquired from newspapers ; a man must see Ireland for him- 
self, — see it,” repeated he, with strong emphasis. 

“ And then? ” 

“And then, if he be a capable man, a reflecting man, a 
man in whom the perceptive power is joined to the social 
faculty — ” 

“ Look here, Cecil : one hearer won’t make a house : don’t 
try it on speechifying to me. It ’s all humbug comino- over 
to look at Ireland. You may pick up a little brogue, but it ’s 
all you ’ll pick up for your journey.” After this, for him, 
unusually long speech, he finished his glass, lighted his bed- 
room candle, and nodding a good-night, strolled away. 

“ I ’d give a crown to know where I heard of you before ! ” 
said Walpole, as he stared up at the portrait. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE COUSINS. 

“Only think of it!” cried Kate to her cousin, as she 
received Walpole’s note. “Can you fancy, Nina, anyone 
having the curiosity to imagine this old house worth a 
visit? Here is a polite request from two tourists to be 
allowed to see the — what is it? — the interesting interior 
of Kilgobbin Castle ! ” 

“Which I hope and trust you will refuse. The people 
who are so eager for these things are invariably tiresome 
old bores, grubbing for antiquities, or intently bent on 
adding a chapter to their story of travel. You ’ll say no, 
dearest, won’t you ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it. I am not acquainted with 
Captain Lockwood, nor his friend Mr. Cecil Walpole.” 

“Did you say Cecil Walpole?” cried the other, almost 
snatching the card from her fingers. “ Of all the strange 
chances in life — this is the very strangest 1 What could 
have brought Cecil Walpole here?” 

“You know him then?” 

“I should think I do! What duets have we not sung 
together? What waltzes have we not had? What rides 
over the Campagna? Oh dear! how I should like to talk 
over these old times again ! Pray tell him he may come, 
Kate, or let me do it.” 

‘ ‘ And papa away ! ” 

“It is the castle, dearest, he wants to see, not papa! 
You don’t know what manner of creature this is ! He is 
one of your refined and supremely cultivated English, — mad 
about archaeology and mediaeval trumpery. He ’ll know 
all your ancestors intended by every insane piece of archi- 
tecture, and every puzzling detail of this old house ; and 


60 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


he ’ll light up every corner of it with some gleam of bright 
tradition.” 

“ I thought these sort of people were bores, dear? ” said 
Kate, with a sly malice in her look. 

“Of course not. When they are well-bred and well- 
mannered — ” 

“And perhaps well-looking?” chimed in Kate. 

“ Yes, and so he is, — a little of the petit maitre perhaps. 
He ’s much of that school which fiction-writers describe 
as having ‘ finely pencilled eyebrows and chins of almost 
womanlike round ness ; ’ but people in Rome always called 
him handsome, — that is, if he be my Cecil Walpole.” 

“ Well, then, will you tell your Cecil Walpole, in such 
polite terms as you know how to coin, that there is really 
nothing of the very slightest pretension to interest in this 
old place ; that we should be ashamed at having lent our- 
selves to the delusion that might have led him here ; and 
lastly, that the owner is from home ? ” 

“ AYhat ! and is this the Irish hospitality I have heard 
so much of, — ^ the cordial welcome the stranger may reckon 
on as a certainty, and make all his plans with the full 
confidence of meeting?” 

“There is such a thing as discretion, also, to be remem- 
bered, Nina,” said Kate, gravely. 

“ And then, there ’s the room where the king slept, and 
the chair that — no, not Oliver Cromwell, but somebody 
else sat in at supper, and there ’s the great patch painted 
on the floor where your ancestor knelt to be knighted.” 

“ He was created a viscount, not a knight! ” said Kate, 
blushino;. “ And there is a difference, I assure vou.” 
“So there is, dearest, and even my foreign ignorance 
should know that much, and you have the parchment that 
attests it, — a most curious document, that AYalpole would 
be delighted to see. I almost fancy him examining the 
curious old seal with his microscope, and hear him unfold- 
ing all sorts of details one never so much as suspected.” 
“ Papa might not like it,” said Kate, bridling up. “ Even 
were he at home, 1 am far from certain he would receive 
these gentlemen. It is little more than a vear ago there 
came here a certain book-writing tourist, and presented 


THE COUSINS. 


61 


himself without introduction. We received him hospitably, 
and he stayed part of a week here. He was fond of an- 
tiquarianism, but more eager still about the condition of 
the people, — what kind of husbandry they practised, what 
wages they had, and what food. Papa took him over the 
whole estate, and answered all his questions freely and 

openly. And this man made a chapter of his book upon 

us, and headed it ‘ Rack-renting and riotous living,’ distort- 
ing all he heard and sneering at all he saw.” 

“These are gentlemen, dearest Kate,” said Nina, hold- 
ing out the card. “ Come now, do tell me that I may say 

you will be happy to see them ? ” 

“If you must have it so — if you really insist — ” 

“ I do ! I do ! ” cried she, half wildly. “ I should go dis- 
tracted if vou denied me. Oh, Kate ! I must own it. It 
will out. I do cling devotedly — terribly to that old life 
of the past. I am very happy here, and you are all good 
and kind and loving to me ; but that wayward haphazard 
existence, with all its trials and miseries, had got little 
glimpses of such bliss at times that rose to actual ecstasy.” 

“ I was afraid of this,” said Kate, in a low but firm 
voice. “ I thought what a change it would be for you 
from that life of brightness and festivity to this existence 
of dull and unbroken dreariness.” 

“ No, no, no! Don’t say that! Do not fancy that I am 
not happier than I ever was or ever believed I could be. It 
was the castle-building of that time that I was regretting. 
I imagined so many things, I invented such situations, such 
incidents, which, with this sad-colored landscape here and 
that leaden sky, I have no force to conjure up. It is as 
though the atmosphere is too weighty for fancy to mount in 
it. You, my dearest Kate,” said she, drawing her arm round 
her, and pressing her towards her, “ do not know tliese 
things, nor need ever know them. Your life is assured and 
safe. You cannot, indeed, be secure from the passing acci- 
dents of life, but they will meet you in a spirit able to con- 
front them. As for me, I was always gambling for existence, 
and gambling witlioiit means to pay my losses if Fortune 
should turn against me. Do you understand me, child?” 

“ Only in part, if even that,” said she, slowly. 


62 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Let us keep this theme, then, for another time. Now 
for ces messieurs. I am to invite them ? ” 

“ If there was time to ask Miss O’Shea to come over — ” 

“ Do you not fancy, Kate, that in your father’s house, 
surrounded with your father’s servants, you are sufticiently 
the mistress to do without a chaperone? Only preserve 
that grand austere look you have listened to me with these 
last ten minutes, and I should like to see the youthful auda- 
city that could brave it. There, I shall go and write my 
note. You shall see how discreetly and properly I shall 
word it.” 

Kate walked thoughtfully towards a window and looked 
out, while Nina skipped gayly down the room, and opened 
her writing-desk, humming an opera am as she wrote, — 

•‘Kilgobbin Castle. 

“ Dear Mr. Walpole, — I can scarcely tell you the pleasure 
I feel at the prospect of seeing a dear friend, or a friend from dear 
Italy, whichever be the most proper to say. My uncle is from home, 
and will not return till the day after to-morrow at dinner ; but my 
cousin. Miss Kearney, charges me to say how happy she will be to 
receive you and your fellow-traveller at luncheon to-morrow. Pray 
not to trouble yourself with an answer, but believe me very sincerely 
yours, 

“Nina Kostalergi.” 

“ I was right in saying luncheon, Kate, and not dinner, — 
was I not? It is less formal.” 

“I suppose so; that is, if it was right to invite them at 
all, of which I h ave very great misgivings.” 

“I wonder what brought Cecil Walpole down here?” said 
Nina, glad to turn the discussion into another channel. 
“ Could he have heard that I was here? Probably not. It 
was a mere chance, I suppose. Strange things these same 
chances are, that do so much more in our lives than all our 
plottings ! ” 

“Tell me something of your friend, perhaps I ought to 
say your admirer, Nina ! ” 

“Yes, very much my admirer; not seriously, you know, 
but in that charming sort of adoration we cultivate abrond, 
that means anything or nothing. He was not titled, and I 


THE COUSINS. 


63 


am afraid he was not rich, and this last misfortune used to 
make his attention to me somewhat painful — to him I mean, 
not to me ; for, of course, as to anything serious, I looked 
much higher than a poor Secretary of Legation.” 

“ Did you? ” asked Kate, with an air of quiet simplicity. 

“ I should hope I did,” said she, haughtily ; and she threw 
a glance at herself in a large mirror, and smiled proudly at 
the bright image that confronted her. “ Yes, darling, say it 
out,” cried she, turning to Kate. “ Your eyes have uttered 
the words already.” 

“ What words? ” 

“ Something about insufferable vanity and conceit, and 
I own to both ! Oh, why is it that my high spirits have 
so run away with me this morning, that I have forgotten 
all reserve and all shame? But the truth is, I feel half 
wild with joy, and joy in my nature is another name for 
recklessness.” 

“I sincerely hope not,” said Kate, gravely. “At any 
rate, you give me another reason for wishing to have Miss 
O’Shea here.” 

“I will not have her, — no, not for worlds, Kate, that 
odious old woman, with her stiff and antiquated propriety. 
Cecil would quiz her.” 

“ I am very certain he would not; at least, if he be such 
a perfect gentleman as you tell me.” 

“ Ah, but you ’d never know he did it. The fine tact of 
these consummate men of the world derives a humoristic 
enjoyment in eccentricity of character, which never shows 
itself in any outward sign beyond the heightened pleasure 
they feel in what other folks might call dulness or mere 
oddity.” 

“ I would not suffer an old friend to be made the subject 
of even such latent amusement.” 

“Nor her nephew, either, perhaps? ” 

“ The nephew could take care of himself, Nina; but I am 
not aware that he will be called on to do so. . He is not m 
Ireland, I believe.” 

“ He was to arrive this week. You told me so.” 

“Perhaps he did; I had forgotten it! ” and Kate flushed 
as she spoke, though whether from shame or anger it was 


64 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


not easy to say. As though impatient with herself at any 
display of temper, she added hurriedly : “ Was it not a piece 
of good fortune, Nina? Papa has left us the key of the 
cellar, — a thing he never did before, and only now because 
you were here ! ” 

“ AV'hat an honored guest I am ! ” said the other, smiling. 

“That you are! I don’t believe papa has gone once to 
the club since you came here.” 

“Now, if I were to own that I was vain of this, you’d 
rebuke me, would not you?” 

“ Our love could scarcely prompt to vanity.” 

“ How shall I ever learn to be humble enough in a family 
of such humility?” said Nina, pettishly. Then quickly 
correcting herself, she said, “ I ’ll go and despatch my note, 
and then I ’ll come back and ask your pardon for all my 
wilfulness, and tell you how much I thank you for all your 
goodness to me.” 

And as she spoke she bent down and kissed Kate’s hand 
twice or thrice fervently. 

“ Oh, dearest Nina, not this, — not this 1 ” said Kate, try- 
ing to clasp her in her arms ; but the other had slipped from 
her grasp, and was gone. 

“ Strange girl,” muttered Kate, looking after her. “ I 
wonder shall I ever understand you, or shall we ever under- 
stand each other ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SHOWING HOW FRIENDS MAY DIFFER. 

The morning broke drearily for our friends, the two pedes- 
trians, at the “ Blue Goat.” A day of dull aspect and soft 
rain in midsummer has the added depression that it seems 
an anachronism. One is in a measure prepared for being 
weather-bound in winter. You accept imprisonment as the 
natural fortune of the season, or you brave the elements 
prepared to let them do their worst, while, if confined to 
house, you have that solace of snugness, that comfortable 
chimney-corner which somehow realizes an immense amount 
of the joys we concentrate in the word “Home.” It is in 
the want of this rallying-point, this little domestic altar, 
where all gather together in a common worship, that lies the 
dreary discomfort of being weather-bound in summer, and 
when the prison is some small village inn, noisy, disorderly, 
and dirty, the misery is complete. 

“ Grand old pig that! ” said Lockwood, as he gazed out 
upon the filthy yard, where a fat old sow contemplated the 
weather from the threshold of her dwelling. 

‘ ‘ I wish she ’d come out. I want to make a sketch of 
her,” said the other. 

“ Even one’s tobacco grows too damp to smoke in this 
blessed climate,” said Lockwood, as he pitched his cigar 
away. “ Heigh-ho I AVe ’re too late for the train to town, 
I see.” 

“ You ’d not go back, would you? ” 

“ I should think I would. That old den in the upper 
Castle-yard is not very cheery or very nice, but there is a 
chair to sit on, and a review and a newspaper to read. A 
tour in a country and with a climate like this is a mistake.” 

“ I suspect it is,” said AValpole, drearily. 

5 


66 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ There is nothing to see, no one to talk to, nowhere to 
stop at ! ” 

“All true,” muttered the other. “By the wa^-, haven’t 
we some plan or project for to-day, — something about an 
old castle or an abbey to see?” 

“Yes, and the waiter brought me a letter. I think it was 
addressed to you, and I left it on my dressing-table. I had 
forgotten all about it. I’ll go and fetch it.” 

Short as his absence was, it gave Walpole time enough to 
recur to his late judgment on his tour, and once more call it 
a “mistake, a complete mistake.” The Ireland of wits, 
dramatists, and romance-writers was a conventional thing, 
and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the rain-soaked, 
dreary-looking, depressed realit3\ “These Irish, they are 
odd without being droll, just as they are poor without being 
picturesque ; but of all the delusions we nourish about 
them, there is not one so thoroughly absurd as to call them 
dangerous.” 

He had just arrived at this mature opinion, when his 
friend re-entered and handed him the note. 

“ Here is a piece of luck. Per Pacco ! ” cried Walpole, as 
he ran over the lines. “ This beats all I could have hoped 
for. Listen to this : ‘ Dear Mr. Walpole, — I cannot tell j^ou 
the delight I feel in the prospect of seeing a dear friend, or a 
friend from dear Italy, which is it? ’ ” 

“ Who writes this? ” 

“A certain Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whom I knew at 
Rome ; one of the prettiest, cleverest, and nicest girls I ever 
met in my life.” 

“ Not the daughter of that precious Count Kostalergi you 
have told me such stories of? ” 

“The same, but most unlike him in every way. She is 
here, apparentl}^ with an uncle, who is now from home, and 
she and her cousin invite us to luncheon to-day.” 

“ What a lark ! ” said the other, dr^dy. 

“ We ’ll go, of course? ” 

“ In weather like this? ” 

“ Wh}" not? Shall we be better off sta^dng here? I now 
begin to remember how the name of this place was so familiar 
to me. She was always asking me if I knew or heard of her 


SHOWING HOW FRIENDS MAY DIFFER. 


bi 

mother’s brother, the Lord Kilgobbin, and, to tell truth, I 
fancied some one had been hoaxing her with the name, 
and never believed that there was even a place with such a 
designation.” 

“ Kilgobbin does not sound like a lordly title. How about 
Mademoiselle — what is the name? ” 

“ Kostalergi ; they call themselves princes.” 

“ With all my heart. I was only going to say, as you ’ve 
got a sort of knack of entanglement — is there, or has there 
been, anything of that sort here? ” 

“ Flirtation — a little of what is called ‘ spooning’ — but 
no more. But why do you ask? ” 

“ First of all, you are an engaged man.” 

“All true, and I mean to keep my engagement. I can’t 
marry, however, till I get a mission, or something at home 
as good as a mission. Lady Maude knows that ; her friends 
know it, but none of us imagine that we are to be miserable 
in the mean time.” 

“I’m not talking of misery. I’d only say, don’t get 
yourself into any mess. These foreign girls are very wide 
awake.” 

“ Don’t believe that, Harry ; one of our home-bred damsels 
would give them a distance and beat them in the race for a 
husband. It’s only in England girls are trained to angle 
for marriage, take my word for it.” 

“Be it so, — I only warn you that if you get into any 
scrape I ’ll accept none of the consequences. Lord Danes- 
bury is ready enough to say that, because I am some ten 
years older than you, I should have kept you out of mis- 
chief. I never contracted for such a bear-leadership ; 
though I certainly told Lady Maude I ’d turn Queen’s 
evidence against you if you became a traitor.” 

“ I wonder you never told me that before,” said Walpole, 
with some irritation of manner. 

“I only wonder that I told it now' !” replied the other, 
gruffly. 

“Then I am to take it, that in your office of guardian 
you’d rather we ’d decline this invitation, eh? ” 

“ I don’t care a rush for it either way, but looking to the 
sort of day it is out there, I incline to keep the house.” 


68 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I don’t mind bad weather, and I ’ll go,” said Walpole, in 
a way that showed temper was involved in the resolution. 

Lockwood made no other reply than heaping a quantity of 
turf on the fire, and seating himself beside it. 

When a man tells his fellow-traveller that he means to 
go his own road, — that companionship has no tie upon him, 
— he virtually declares the partnership dissolved ; and while 
Lockwood sat reflecting over this, he was also canvassing 
with himself how far he might have been to blame in pro- 
voking this hasty resolution. 

“ Perhaps he was irritated at my counsels, perhaps the 
notion of anything like guidance offended him ; perhaps it 
was the phrase ‘ bear-leadership,’ and the half-threat of 
betraying him, has done the mischief.” Now, the gallant 
soldier was a slow thinker ; it took him a deal of time to 
arrange the details of any matter in his mind, and when he 
tried to muster his ideas there were many which would not 
answer the call, and of those which came, there were not a 
few which seemed to present themselves in a refractory and 
unwilling spirit, so that he had almost to suppress a mutiny 
before he proceeded to his inspection. 

Nor did the strong cheroots, which he smoked to clear his 
faculties and develop his mental resources, always contribute 
to this end, though their soothing influence certainly helped 
to make him more satisfied with his judgments. 

“Now, look here, Walpole,” said he, determining that he 
would save himself all unnecessary labor of thought b}^ 
throwing the burden of the case on the respondent, — “ look 
here : take a calm view of this thing, and see if it ’s quite 
wise in you to go back into trammels it cost 3^011 some trouble 
to escape from. You call it spooning, but you won’t deny, 
you went very far with that young woman, — farther, I sus- 
pect than you ’ve told me yet. Eh ! is that true or not? ” 

He waited a reasonable time for a repl\^; but none com- 
ing, he went on; “I don’t want a forced confidence. You 
may say it ’s no business of mine, and there I agree with 
you, and probably if you put me to the question in the same 
fashion I ’d give \"ou a very short answer. Remember one 
thing, however, old fellow: I’ve seen a precious deal more 
of life and the world than you have! From sixteen years of 


SHOWING HOW FRIENDS MAY DIFFER. 


69 


age, when you were hammering away at Greek verbs and 
some such balderdash at Oxford, I was up at Rangoon with 
the very fastest set of men — ay, of women, too — I ever 
lived with in all my life. Half of our fellows w'ere killed 
off by it. Of course people will say climate, climate! but 
if I w^ere to give you the history of one day — just twenty- 
four hours of our life up there — you ’d say that the wonder 
is there ’s any one alive to tell it.” 

He turned around at this to enjoy the expression of 
horror and surprise he hoped to have called up, and per- 
ceived for the first time that he was alone. He rang the 
bell, and asked the waiter where the other gentleman had 
gone, and learned that he had ordered a car, and set out 
for Kilgobbin Castle more than half an hour before. 

“All right,” said he, fiercely. “I wash my hands of it 
altogether! I’m heartily glad I told him so before he 
went.” He smoked on very vigorously for half an hour, 
the burden of his thoughts being perhaps revealed by the 
summing-up, as he said, “And when you are ‘in for it,’ 
Master Cecil, and some precious scrape it will be, if I move 
hand or foot to pull you through it, call me a Major of 
Marines, that ’s all, — just call me a Major of Marines! ” 
The ineffable horror of such an imputation served as matter 
for revery for hours. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG. 

While Lockwood continued thus to doubt and debate with 
himself, Walpole was already some miles on his way to 
Kilgobbin. Not, indeed, that he had made any remarkable 
progress, for the “mare that was to rowl his honor over in 
an hour and half ” had to be taken from the field where she 
had been ploughing since daybreak, while “the boy” that 
should drive her was a little old man who had to be aroused 
from a condition of drunkenness in a hayloft, and installed 
in his office. 

Nor were these the onlv difficulties. The roads that led 
through the bog were so numerous and so completely alike 
that it only needed the dense atmosphere of a rainy dav to 
make it matter of great difficulty to discover the right 
track. More than once were they obliged to retrace their 
steps after a considerable distance; and the driver’s impa- 
tience always took the shape of a reproach to Walpole, who, 
having nothing else to do, should surely have minded 
where they were going. Now, not only was the traveller 
utterly ignorant of the geography of the land he journeyed 
in, but his thoughts were far and awa^^ from the scenes 
around him. Very scattered and desultory thoughts were 
they, at one time over the Alps and with “loim-acroes : ” 
nights at Rome clashing with mornings on the Campagna; 
vast salons crowded with people of many nations, all more 
or less busy with that great traffic which, whether it take 
the form of religion, or politics, or social intrigue, hate, 
love, or rivalry, makes up what we call “the world;” or 

there w^ere sunsets dying away rapidly — as they will do 

over that great plain outside the city, whereon solitude and 


A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG. 


71 


silence are as much masters as on a vast prairie of the West; 
and he thought of times when he rode back at nightfall 
beside Nina Kostalergi, when little flashes would cross 
them of that romance that very worldly folk now and then 
taste of, and delight in with a zest all the greater that the 
sensation is so new and strange to them. Then there was 
the revulsion from the blaze of waxlights and the glitter of 
diamonds, the crash of orchestras and the din of conversa- 
tion, the intoxication of the flattery that champagne only 
seems to ‘‘accentuate,” to the unbroken stillness of the 
hour, when even the footfall of the horse is unheard, and a 
dreamy doubt that this quietude, this soothing sense of 
calm, is higher happiness than all the glitter and all the 
splendor of the ball-room, and that in the dropping words 
we now exchange, and in the stray glances, there is a sig- 
nificance and an exquisite delight we never felt till now; 
for, glorious as is the thought of a returned affection, full 
of ecstasy the sense of a heart all, all our own, there is in 
the first half-doubtful, distrustful feeling of falling in love, 
with all its chances of success or failure, something that 
has its moments of bliss nothing of earthly delight can ever 
equal. To the verge of that possibility Walpole had 
reached — but gone no further — with Nina Kostalergi. The 
young men of the age are an eminently calculating and 
prudent class, and they count the cost of an action with a 
marvellous amount of accuracy. Is it the turf and its 
teachings to which this crafty and cold-blooded spirit is 
owing? Have they learned to “square their book” on life 
by the lessons of Ascot and Newmarket, and seen that, no 
matter how probably they “stand to win” on this, they 
must provide for that, and that no caution or foresight is 
enough that will not embrace every casualty of any 
venture ? 

There is no need to tell a younger son of the period that 
he must not marry a pretty girl of doubtful family and no 
fortune. He mav have his doubts on scores of subjects: 
he may not be quite sure whether he ought to remain a Whig 
with Lord Russell or go in for Odgerism and the ballot; he 
may be uncertain about Colenso, and have his misgivings 
about the Pentateuch; he may not be easy in his mind 


72 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


about the Russians in the East, or the Americans in the 
West; uncomfortable suspicions may cross him that the 
Volunteers are not as quick in evolution as the Zouaves, 
or that England generally does not sing “ Rule Britannia ” 
so lustily as she used to do. All these are possible mis- 
givings; but that he should take such a plunge as matri- 
mony, on other grounds than the perfect prudence and profit 
of the investment, could never occur to him. 

As to the sinfulness of tampering with a girl’s affections 
by what in slang is called “spooning,” it was purely absurd 
to think of it. You might as well say that playing sixpenny 
whist made a man a gambler. And then, as to the spoon- 
ing, it was igale ; the lady was no worse off than the 

gentleman. If there were by any hazard — and this he was 
disposed to doubt — “affections” at stake, the man “stood 
to lose ” as much as the woman. But this was not the 
aspect in which the case presented itself, flirtation being, in 
his idea, to marriage what the preliminary canter is to the 
race, — something to indicate the future, but so dimly and 
doubtfully as not to decide the hesitation of the waverer. 

If, then, Walpole was never for a moment what mothers 
call serious in his attentions to Mademoiselle Kostalergi, 
he was not the less fond of her society; he frequented the 
places where she was likely to be met with, and paid her 
that degree of “court ” that only stopped short of being 
particular by his natural caution. There was the more 
need for the exercise of this quality at Rome, since there 
were many there who knew of his engagement with his 
cousin, Lady Maude, and who would not have hesitated to 
report on any breach of fidelity. Now, hoAvever, all these 
restraints were withdrawn. They were not in Italy, where 
London, by a change of venue, takes its “ records ” to be 
tried in the dull days of winter. They were in Ireland, and 
in a remote spot of Ireland, where there were no gossips, 
no clubs, no afternoon-tea committees to sit on reputations, 
and was it not pleasant now to see this nice girl again in 
perfect freedom? These were, loosely stated, the thoughts 
which occupied him as he went along; very little disposed 
to mind how often the puzzled driver halted to decide the 
road, or how frequently he retraced miles of distance. Men 


A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG. 


73 


of the world, especially when young in life, and more real- 
istic than they will be twenty years later, proud of the in- 
credulity they can feel on the score of everything and 
everybody, are often fond of making themselves heroes to 
their own hearts of some little romance which shall not cost 
them dearly to indulge in, and merely engage some loose- 
lying sympathies without in any way prejudicing their road 
in life. They accept of these sentimentalities as the vicar’s 
wife did the sheep in the picture, pleased to “have as many 
as the painter would put in for nothing.” 

Now, Cecil Walpole never intended that this little Irish 
episode — and episode he determined it should be — should 
in any degree affect the serious fortunes of his life. He 
w^as engaged to his cousin. Lady Maude Bickerstaffe, and 
they would be married some day. Not that either was very 
impatient to exchange present comfort — and, on her side, 
affluence — for a marriage on small means and no great 
prospects beyond that. They were not much in love. 
Walpole knew that the Lady Maude’s fortune was small; 
but the man who married her must “be taken care of,” and 
by either side, for there were as many Tories as Whigs in 
the family, and Lady Maude knew that half a dozen years 
ago she would certainly not have accepted Walpole; but 
that with every year her chances of a better parti were di- 
minishing; and, worse than all this, each was well aware of 
the inducements by which the other was influenced. Nor 
did the knowledge in any way detract from their self- 
complacence or satisfaction with the match. 

Lady IMaude was to accompany her uncle to Ireland, and 
do the honors of his court; for he was a bachelor, and 
pleaded hard with his party on that score to be let off 
accepting the viceroyalty. 

Lady. Maude, however, had not }^et arrived, and even if 
she had, how should she ever hear of an adventure in the 
Bog of Allen! 

But was there to be an adventure? and if so, what sort 
of adventure? Irishmen, Walpole had heard, had all the 
jealousy about their women that characterizes savage races, 
and w'ere ready to resent what, in civilized people, no one 
would dream of regarding as matter for umbrage. Weil. 


74 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


then, it was only to be more cautious, — more on one’s 
guard; besides, the tact, too, which a knowledge of life 
should give — 

“Eh, what ’s this? Why are you stopping here? ” 

This was addressed now to the driver, who had descended 
from his box, and was standing in advance of the horse. 

“Whv don’t I drive on, is it?” asked he, in a voice of 
despair. “Sure, there ’s no road.” 

“And does it stop here?” cried Walpole, in horror; for 
he now perceived that the road really came to an abrupt 
ending in the midst of the bog. 

“Begorra, it’s just what it does. Ye see, your honor,” 
added he, in a confidential tone, “it’s one of them tricks 
the English played us in the year of the famine. They got 
two millions of money to make roads in Ireland, but they 
were so afraid it would make us prosperous and richer than 
themselves that they set about making roads that go no- 
where. Sometimes to the top of a mountain, or down to 
the sea, where there was no harbor, and sometimes, like this 
one, into the heart of a bog.” 

“That was very spiteful and very mean, too,” said 
Walpole. 

“Wasn’t it just mean, and nothing else! and it’s five 
miles we ’ll have to go back now to the cross-roads. 
Begorra, your honor, it ’s a good dhrink ye ’ll have to give 
me for this day’s work.” 

“You forget, my friend, that but for your own con- 
founded stupidity I should have been at Kilgobbin Castle 
by this time.” 

“And ye’ll be there yet, with God’s help!” said he, 
turning the horse’s head. “Bad luck to them for the road- 
making; and it ’s a pity, after all, it goes nowhere, for it ’s 
the nicest bit to travel in tlie whole country.” 

“Come now, jump up, old fellow, and make your beast 
step out. I don’t want to pass the night here.” 

“You would n’t have a dhrop of whiskey with your 
honor? ” 

“Of course not.” 

“Nor even brandy? ” 

“No, not even brandv.” 


A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG. 


75 


“Musha, I ’m thinking you must be English,” muttered 
he, half sulkily. 

“And if I were, is there any great harm in that? ” 

“By coorse not; how could ye help it? I suppose we ’d 
all of us be better if we could. Sit a bit more forward, 
your honor; the bellyband does be lifting her; and as 
you ’re doing nothing, just give her a welt of that stick in 
your hand, now and then, for I lost the lash off my whip, 
and I ’ve nothing but this! ” And he displayed the short 
handle of what had once been a whip, with a thong of 
leather dangling at the end. 

“ I must say I was n’t aware that I was to have worked my 
passage,” said Walpole, with something between drollery 
and irritation. 

“She does n’t care for bating; stick her with the end of 
it. That ’s the way. We ’ll get on elegant now. I suppose 
you was never here before ? ” 

“No; and 1 think I can promise you I’ll not come 
again.” 

“I hope you will, then, and many a time, too. This is 
the Bog of Allen you ’re travelling now, and they tell there ’s 
not the like of it in the three kingdoms.” 

“I trust there ’s not! ” 

“The English, they say, has no bogs. Nothing but 
coal.” 

“Quite true.” 

“Erin, ma bouchal you are! first gem of the say! that ’s 
what Dan O’Connell always called you. Are you gettin’ 
tired with the stick? ” 

“I’m tired of your wretched old beast, and your car, and 
yourself, too,” said Walpole; “and if I were sure that was 
the castle j^onder, I ’d make my way straight to it on foot. 

“And Avhy would n’t you, if your honor liked it best? 
Why w'ould ye be beholden to a car if you’d rather w^alk? 
Only mind the bog-holes; for there’s tw^'cnty feet of water 
in some of them, and the sides is so straight you ’ll never 
get out if you fall in.” 

“Drive on, then. I’ll remain where I am; but don’t 
bother me wdth your talk; and no more questioning.” 

“By coorse I won’t, — why would I ? Is n’t your honor a 


76 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


gentleman, and have n’t you a right to say what you plaze; 
and what am I but a poor boy, earning his bread? Just the 
way it is all through the world ; some has everything they 
want, and more besides, and others has n’t a stitch to their 
backs, or maybe a pinch of tobacco to put in a pipe.” 

This appeal was timed by seeing that Walpole had just 
lighted a fresh cigar, whose fragrant fumes were wmfted 
across the speaker’s nose. 

Firm to his determination to maintain silence, Walpole 
paid no attention to the speech, nor uttered a word of any 
kind; and as a light drizzling rain had now begun to fall, 
and obliged him to shelter himself under an umbrella, he 
was at length saved from his companion’s loquacity. 
Baffled, but not beaten, the old fellow began to sing, at 
first in a low, droning tone; but growing louder as the fire 
of patriotism wvarmed him, he shouted, to a very wild and 
somewhat irregular tune, a ballad, of which Walpole could 
not but hear the words occasionally, while the tramping of 
the fellow’s feet on the foot-board kept time to his song: 

“ ’T is our fuu they can’t forgive us, 

Nor our wit so sharp and keen ; 

But there ’s nothing that provokes therm 
Like our wearin’ of the green. 

They thought Boverty would bate us, 

But we ’ll sell our last ‘ boueen ’ 

And we ’ll live on could paytatees, 

All for w'earin’ of the green. 

Oh, the wearin’ of the green — the wearin’ of the green ! 

’T is the color best becomes us 
Is the wearin’ of the green ! ” 

“Here’s a cigar for you, old fellow; and stop that infer- 
nal chant.” 

“There ’s only five verses more, and I ’ll sing them for 
your honor before I light the baccy.” 

“If you do, then, you shall never light baccy of mine. 
Can’t you see that your confounded song is driving me 
mad ? ” 

“Faix, ye ’re the first I ever see disliked music,” mut- 
tered he, in a tone almost compassionate. 

And now as AYalpole raised the collar of his coat to 


A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG. 


77 


defend bis ears, and prepared, as well he might, to resist 
the weather, he muttered, “And this is the beautiful laud 
of scenery; and this the climate; and this the amusing and 
witty peasant we read of. I have half a mind to tell the 
world how it has been humbugged ! ” And thus musing, he 
jogged on the weary road, nor raised his head till the heavy 
clash of an iron gate aroused him, and he saw that they 
were driving along an approach, with some clumps of pretty 
but young timber on either side. 

“Here we are, your honor, safe and sound,” cried the 
driver, as proudly as if he had not been five hours over what 
should have been done in one and a half. “This is Kil- 
gobbin. All the ould trees was cut dowu by Oliver Crom- 
well, they say; but there will be a fine wood here yet. 
That’s the castle you see yonder, over them trees; but 
there ’s no flag flying. The Lord ’s away. I suppose I ’ll 
have to wait for your honor? You ’ll be coming back with 
me? ” 

“Yes, you ’ll have to wait.” And Walpole looked at his 
watch, and saw it was already past five o’clock. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 

When the hour of luncheon came, and no guests made their 
appearance, the young girls at the castle began to discuss 
what they should best do. “I know nothing of fine people 
and their ways,” said Kate; “you must take the whole 
direction here, Nina.” 

“It is only a question of time, and a cold luncheon can 
wait without difficulty. ” 

And so they waited till three, then till four, and now it 
was five o’clock; when Kate, who had been over the 
kitchen-garden, and the calves’ paddock, and inspecting a 
small tract laid out for a nursery, came back to the house 
very tired, and, as she said, also very hungr3\ “You 
know, Nina,” said she, entering the room, “I ordered no 
dinner to-day. I speculated on our making our dinner when 
your friends lunched; and as they have not lunched, we 
have not dined; and I vote we sit down now. I ’m afraid I 
shall not be as pleasant company as that Mr. — do tell me 
his name — Walpole; but I pledge myself to have as good 
an appetite.” 

Nina made no answer. She stood at the open window; 
her gaze steadily bent on the strip of narrow road that trav- 
ersed the wide moor before her. 

“Ain’t you hungry? I mean, ain’t you famished, child? ” 
asked Kate. 

“No, I don’t think so. I could eat; but I believe I 
could go without eating just as well.” 

“Well, I must dine; and if you were not looking so nice 
and fresh, with a rosebud in your hair and your white dress 
so daintily looped up, I ’d ask leave not to dress.” 

“If you were to smooth your hair, and, perhaps, change 
your boots — ” 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


79 


“ Ob, I know, and become in every respect a little civil- 
ized. My poor dear cousin, what a mission you have 
undertaken among the savages ! Own it honestly, you never 
guessed the task that was before you when you came 
here. ” 

“Oh, it’s very nice savagery, all the same,” said the 
other, smiling pleasantly. 

“ There now 1 ” cried Kate, as she threw her hat to one 
side, and stood arranging her hair before the glass. “ I 
make this toilette under protest, for we are going in to 
luncheon, not dinner; and all the world knows, and all the 
illustrated newspapers show, that people do not dress for 
lunch. And, by the way, that is something you have not 
got in Italy. All the women gathering together in their 
garden-bonnets and their morning muslins, and the men in 
their knickerbockers and their coarse tweed coats.” 

“ I declare I think you are in better spirits since you see 
these people are not coming.” 

“It is true. You have guessed it, dearest. The thought 
of anything grand, — as a visitor; anything that would for 
a moment suggest the unpleasant question. Is this right? 
or. Is that usual? — makes me downright irritable. Come, 
are you ready ? May I offer you my arm ? ” 

And now the}^ were at table, Kate rattling away in un- 
wonted gayety, and trying to rally Nina out of her disap- 
pointment. 

“1 declare, Nina, everything is so pretty I am ashamed 
to eat. Those chickens near you are the least ornamental 
things I see. Cut me off a wing. Oh, I forgot, you never 
acquired the barbarous art of carving.” 

“I can cut this,” said Nina, drawing a dish of tongue 
towards her. 

“What! that marvellous production like a parterre of 
flowers? It would be downright profanation to destroy it.” 
“Then shall I give you some of this, Kate? ” 

“Why, child, that is strawberry-cream. But I cannot 
eat all alone; do help yourself.” 

“I shall take something by and by.” 

“ What do young ladies in Italy eat when they are — no, 
I don’t mean in love; I shall call it — in despair? ” 


80 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Give me some of that white wine beside you. There! 
don’t you hear a noise? I ’m certain 1 heard the sound of 
wheels.” 

“Most sincerely, I trust not. I wouldn’t for anything 
these people should break in upon us now. If my brother 
Dick should drop in, I ’d welcome him, and he would make 
our little party perfect. Do you know, Nina, Dick can be 
so jolly. What’s that? there are voices there without.” 

As she spoke, the door was opened, and Walpole entered. 
The young girls had but time to rise from their seats, when 
— they never could exactly say how — they found them- 
selves shaking hands with him in great cordiality. 

“And your friend, — where is he?” 

“Nursing a sore throat, or a sprained ankle, or a some- 
thing or other. Shall 1 confess it, — as only a suspicion on 
my part, however, — that I do believe he was too much 
shocked at the outrageous liberty I took in asking to be 
admitted here to accept any partnership in the imperti- 
nence?” 

“We expected you at two or three o’clock,” said Nina. 

“And shall I tell you why I was not here before? Per- 
haps you ’ll scarcely credit me w^hen I say I have been five 
hours on the road.” 

“Five hours! How did you manage that? ” 

“In this way. I started a few minutes after twelve 
from the inn, — I on foot, the car to overtake me.” And he 
went on to give a narrative of his wanderings over the bog, 
imitating, as well as he could, the driver’s conversations 
with him, and the reproaches he vented on his inattention to 
the road. Kate enjoyed the stor}^ with all the humoristic 
fun of one who knew thoroughly how the peasant had been 
playing with the gentleman, just for the indulgence of that 
strange sarcastic temper that underlies the Irish nature; 
and she could fancy how much more droll it would have 
been to have heard the narrative as told by the driver of 
the car. 

“And don’t you like his song, Mr. Walpole? ” 

“M hat! ‘ The M earing of the Green? ’ It was the drear- 
iest dirge I ever listened to.” 

“Come, you shall not say so. When we go into the 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


81 


drawing-room, Nina shall sing it for you, and I’ll wager 
you recant your opinion.” 

“And do you sing rebel canticles. Mademoiselle 
Kostalergi ? ” 

O 

“Yes, I do all my cousin bids me. I wear a red cloak. 
How is it called ? ” 

“Connemara? ” 

Nina nodded. 

“ That ’s the name, but I ’m not going to say it; and when 
Tve go abroad — that is, on the bog there, for a walk — we 
dress in green petticoats and wear very thick shoes.” 

“And, in a word, are very generally barbarous.” 

“Well, if you be really barbarians,” said Walpole, 
filling his glass, “I wonder what I would not give to be 
allowed to join the tribe.” 

“Oh, you ’d want to be a sachem, or a chief, or a 
mystery-man, at least; and we couldn’t permit that,” cried 
Kate. 

“No; I crave admission as the humblest of your 
followers.” 

“Shall we put him to the test, Nina? ” 

“How do you mean? ” cried the other. 

“Make him take a Ribbon oath, or the pledge of a United 
Irishman. I ’ve copies of both in papa’s study.” 

“I should like to see these immensely,” said Walpole. 

“I’ll see if I can’t find them,” cried Kate, rising, and 
hastening away. 

For some seconds after she left the room there was perfect 
silence. Walpole tried to catch Nina’s eye before he 
spoke, but she continued steadily to look down, and did 
not once raise her lids. 

“Is she not very nice, — is she not veiy beautiful? 
asked she, in a low voice. 

“It is of you I want to speak.” 

And he drew his chair closer to her, and tried to take 
her hand; but she withdrew it quickly, and moved slightly 
away. 

“if you knew the delight it is to me to see you again, 
'Sina — well. Mademoiselle Kostalergi. Must it be 
Mademoiselle? ” 


6 


82 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


don’t remember it was ever ‘ Nina,’ ” said she, coldly. 

‘‘Perhaps only in my thoughts. To 1113" heart, I can 
swear, you were Nina. But tell me how 3^011 came here, 
and when, and for how long, for I want to know all. Speak 
to me, I beseech you. She ’ll be back in a moment, and 
when shall I have another instant alone with you like this? 
Tell me how 3"OU came amongst them, and are the3^ really 
all rebels ? ” 

Kate entered at the instant, sa3ung, “I can’t find it; but 
I’ll have a good search to-morrow, for I know it’s there.” 

“Do, by all means, Kate, for Mr. Walpole is very anx- 
ious to learn if he be admitted legitimatel3" into this 
brotherhood, — whatever it be ; he has just asked me if we 
were really all rebels here.” 

“I trust he does not suppose I would deceive him,” said 
Kate, gravely. “And when he hears 3^11 sing, ‘ The black- 
ened hearth, the fallen roof,’ he ’ll not question tjou ^ Nina. 
Do you know that song, Mr. Walpole? ” 

He smiled as he said “No.” 

“Won’t it be so nice,” said she, “to catch a fresh ingen- 
uous Saxon wandering innocentl3^ over the Bog of Allen, 
and send him back to his friends a Fenian! ” 

“Make me what you please, but don’t send me awa3\” 

“Tell me, really, what would you do if we made you take 
the oath? ” 

“Betray you, of course, the moment I got up to Dublin.” 

Nina’s eyes flashed angrily, as though such jesting was 
an offence. 

“No, no, the shame of such treason would be intolerable; 
but you ’d go your way and behave as though 3’ou never 
saw us.” 

“Oh, he could do that without the inducement of a per- 
jury,” said Nina, in Italian; and then added aloud, “Let ’s 
go and make some music. Mr. Walpole sings charminglv, 
Kate, and is very obliging about it, — at least, he used 
to be.” 

“I am all that I used to be — towards that,” whispered he, 
as she passed him to take Kate’s arm and walk awa3\ 

“You don’t seem to have a thick neighborhood about 
you,” said Walpole. “Have you any people living near?” 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


83 


“Yes, we have a dear old friend, — a Miss O’Shea, a 
maiden lady, who lives a few miles off. By the way, 
there ’s something to show you, — an old maid who hunts 
her own harriers.” 

“What! are you in earnest? ” 

“On my word, it is true! Nina can’t endure her; but 
N ina doesn’t care for hare-hunting, and, I ’m afraid to say, 
never saw a badger drawn in her life.” 

“And have you?” asked he, almost with horror in his 
tone. 

“I ’ll show you three regular little turnspit dogs to-morrow 
that will answer that question.” 

“How I wish Lockwood had come out here with me! ” said 
Walpole, almost uttering a thought. 

“That is, you wish he had seen a bit of barbarous Ire- 
land he ’d scarcely credit from mere description. But per- 
haps I ’d have been better behaved before him. I ’m 
treating you with all the freedom of an old friend of 
my cousin’s.” 

Nina had meanwhile opened the piano, and was letting 
her hands stray over the instrument in occasional chords; 
and then, in a low voice that barely blended its tones wdth 
the accompaniment, she sang one of those little popular 
songs of Italy, called “Stornelli,” — wild, fanciful melodies, 
with that blended gayety and sadness which the songs of a 
people are so often marked by. 

“That is a very old favorite of mine,” said Walpole, 
approaching the piano as noiselessly as though he feared 
to disturb the singer; and now he stole into a chair at her 
side. “How that song makes me wish we were back again, 
where I heard it first! ” whispered he, gently. 

“I forget where that was,” said she, carelessly. 

“No, Nina, you do not,” said he, eagerly; “it was at 
Albano, the day we all went to Pallavicini’s villa.” 

“And I sung a little French song, ‘ Si vous n’avez rien a 
me dire,’ which you were vain enough to imagine was a 
question addressed to yourself ; and you made me a sort 
of declaration; do you remember all that? ” 

“Every word of it.” 

“Why don’t you go and speak to my cousin? She has 


84 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


opened the window and gone out upon the terrace, and I 
trust you understand that she expects you to follow her.” 
There was a studied calm in the way she spoke that showed 
she was exerting considerable self-control. 

“No, no, Nina, it is with you I desire to speak, to see 
you that 1 have come here.” 

“And so you do remember that you made me a declara- 
tion? It made me laugh afterwards as I thought it over.” 

“Made you laugh! ” 

“Yes, I laughed to myself at the ingenious way in which 
you conveyed to me what an imprudence it wms in you to 
fall in love with a girl who had no fortune, and the shock it 
wmald give your friends when they should hear she was a 
Greek.” 

“How can you say such painful things, Nina? how can 
you be so pitiless as this?” 

“It was you wTo had no pity, sir. I felt a deal of pity; 
I will not deny it was for myself.. I don’t pretend to say 
that I could give a correct version of the way in which you 
conveyed to me the pain it gave you that I was not a prin- 
cess, a Borromeo, or a Colonna, or an Altieri. That Greek 
adventurer, yes, — you cannot deny it, I overheard these 
words myself. . You were talking to an English girl; a tall, 
rather handsome person she was, — I shall remember her 
name in a moment if you cannot help me to it sooner, — a 
Lady Bickerstaffe — ” 

“Yes, there was a Lady Maude Bickerstaffe; she merely 
passed through Rome for Naples.” 

“You called her a cousin, I remember.” 

“There is some cousinship between us; I forget exactly 
in what degree.” 

“Do try and remember a little more; remember that you 
forgot you had engaged me for the cotillon, and drove 
flway with that blond beauty, — and she was a beauty, or 
had been a few years before; at all events you lost all 
memory of the daughter of the adventurer.” 

“You will drive me distracted, Nina, if you say such 
things.” 

“I know it is wrong and it is cruel, and it is worse than 
wrong and cruel, it is what you English call under-bred, to 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


85 


be so individually disagreeable; but this grievance of mine 
has been weighing very heavily on my heart, and I have 
been longing to tell you so.” 

“Why are you not singing, Nina?” cried Kate from the 
terrace. “You told me of a duet, and I think you are bent 
on having it without music.” 

“Yes, we are quarrelling fiercely,” said Nina. “This 
gentleman has been rash enough to remind me of an 
unsettled score between us, and as he is the defaulter — ” 

“I dispute the debt.” 

“Shall 1 be the judge between you? ” asked Kate. 

“On no account; my claim once disputed, I surrender 
it,” said Nina. 

“ I must say 3^011 are very charming compan3^ You won’t 
sing, and you ’ll only talk to say disagreeable things. Shall 
I make tea and see if it will render you more amiable? ” 
“Do so, dearest, and then show Mr. Walpole the house; 
he has forgotten what brought him here, I really believe.” 
“You know that I have not,” muttered he, in a tone of 
deep meaning. 

“There ’s no light now to show him the house; Mr. Wal- 
pole must come to-morrow, when papa will be at home and 
delighted to see him.” 

“May I really do this?” 

“Perhaps, besides, your friend will have found the little 
inn so insupportable that he too will join us. Listen to 
that sigh of poor Nina’s and you ’ll understand what it is 
to be dreary! ” 

“No; I want my tea.” 

“And it shall have it,” said Kate, kissing her with a 
petting affectation, as she left the room. 

“Now one word, only one,” said Walpole, as he drew 
his chair close to her; “if I swear to you — ” 

“What’s that? who is Kate angry with?” cried Nina, 
rising and rushing towards the door. “What has hap- 
pened ? ” 

“I’ll tell you what has happened,” said Kate, as with 
flashing eyes and heightened color she entered the room. 
“The large gate of the outer yard, that is every night locked 
and strongly barred at sunset, has been left open, and they 


86 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


tell me that three men have come in — Sally says five — and 
are hiding in some of the outhouses.” 

“What for? Is it to rob, think you?” asked Walpole. 

“It is certainly for nothing good. They all know that 
papa is away, and the house so far unprotected,” continued 
Kate, calmly. “We must find out to-morrow who has left 
the gate unbolted. This was no accident, and now that 
they are setting fire to the ricks all round us, it is no tim.e 
for carelessness.” 

“Shall we search the offices and the outbuildings?” 
asked Walpole. 

“Of course not; we must stand by the house and take 
care that they do not enter it. It ’s a strong old place; and 
even if they forced an entrance below, they couldn’t set 
fire to it.” 

“Could they force their way up? ” asked Walpole. 

“Not if the people above have any courage. Just come 
and look at the stair; it was made in times when people 
thought of defending themselves.” They issued forth now 
together to the top of the landing, where a narrow, steep 
flight of stone steps descended between two walls to the 
basement-story. A little more th*an half-way down was a 
low iron gate or grille of considerable strength ; though, not 
being above four feet in height, it could have been no great 
defence, which seemed, after all, to have been its intention. 
“When this is closed,” said Kate, shutting it with a heavy 
bang, “it ’s not such easy work to pass up against two or 
three resolute people at the top; and see here,” added she, 
showing a deep niche or alcove in the wall, “this was evi- 
dently meant for the sentry who watched the wicket; he 
could stand here out of the reach of all fire.” 

“ Would you not say she was longing for a conflict? ” said 
Nina, gazing at her. 

“No, but if it comes I ’ll not decline it.” 

“You mean you ’ll defend the stair? ” asked Walpole. 

She nodded assent. 

“What arms have you?” 

“Plenty; come and look at them. Here,” said she, enter- 
ing the dining-room, and pointing to a large oak sideboard 
covered with weapons, — “here is probably what has led 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


87 


these people here. They are going through the country, 
latterly, on every side, in search of arms. I believe this is 
almost the only house where they have not called.” 

“And do they go away quietly when their demands are 
complied with?” 

“Yes, when they chance upon people of poor courage 
they leave them with life enough to tell the story. — What 
is it, Mathew?” asked she of the old servin2,’*man who 
entered the room. 

“It ’s the ‘ boys,’ miss, and they want to talk to you, if 
you ’ll step out on the terrace. They don’t mean any harm 
at all.” 

“What do they want, then? ” 

“Just a spare gun or two, miss, or an ould pistol, or a 
thing of the kind that was no use.” 

“Was it not brave of them to come here when my father 
was from home? Are n’t they fine courageous creatures to 
come and frighten two lone girls, — eh. Mat? ” 

“Don’t anger them, miss, for the love of Joseph! Don’t 
say anything hard; let me hand them that ould carbine 
there, and the fowling-piece; and if you ’d give them a 
pair of horse-pistols, I’m sure they’d go away quiet.” 

A loud noise of knocking, as though with a stone, at the 
outer door, broke in upon the colloquy, and Kate passed 
into the drawing-room, and opened the window, out upon 
the stone terrace which overlooked the yard. “Who is 
there? — who are you? — what do you want?” cried she, 
peering down into the darkness, which in the shadow of the 
house was deeper. 

“We ’ve come for arms,” cried a deep hoarse voice. 

“ My father is away from home ; come and ask for them 
when he ’s here to answer you.” 

A wild, insolent laugh from below acknowledged what 
they thought of this speech. 

“Maybe that was the rayson we came now, miss,” said 
a voice, in a lighter tone. 

“Fine courageous fellows }mu are to say so; I hope Ire- 
land has more of such brave patriotic men.” 

“You’d better leave that, anyhow,” said another; and 
as he spoke he levelled and fired, but evidently with intern 


88 


LORD KILGOBBi:S. 


tion to terrify rather than wound, for the plaster came tum- 
bling down from several feet above her head ; and now the 
knocking at the door was redoubled, and with a noise that 
resounded through the house. 

“Would n’t you advise her to give up the arms and let 
them go?” said Nina, in a whisper to Walpole; but though 
she was deadly pale, there was no tremor in her voice. 

“The door is giving way, the wood is completely rotten. 
Now for the stairs. Mr. Walpole, you ’re going to stand 
by me ? ” 

“ I should think so, but I ’d rather you’d remain here. I 
know my ground now.” 

“No, I must be beside you. You’ll have to keep a 
rolling fire, and I can load quicker than most people — 
come along now, we must take no light with us — follow 
me.” 

“Take care,” said Nina to Walpole, as he passed, but 
with an accent so full of a strange significance it dwelt on 
his memory long after. 

“What was it Nina whispered you, as you came by?” 
said Kate. 

“ Something about being cautious,'! think,” said he, care- 
lessly. 

“ Stay where you are, Mathew,” said the girl, in a severe 
tone, to the old servant, who was officiously pressing forward 
with a light. 

“Go back!” cried she, as he persisted in following 
her. 

“That’s the worst of all our troubles here, Mr. Walpole,” 
said she, boldly ; “ you cannot depend on the people of your 
own household. The very people you have nursed in sick- 
ness, if they only belong to some secret association will 
betray you I She made no secret of her words, but spoke 
them loud enough to be heard by the group of servants now 
gathered on the landing. Noiseless she tripped down the 
stairs, and passed into the little dark alcove, followed by 

Walpole, carrying any amount of guns and carbines under 
his arm. 

“These are loaded, I presume? ” said he. 

“ All, and ready capped. The short carbine is charo-ed 

O 


THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


89 


with a sort of canister shot, and keep it for a short range — 
if they try to pass over the iron gate. Now mind me, and 
I will give you the directions I heard my father give on this 
spot once before. Don’t fire till they reach the foot of the 
stair.” 

“ I cannot hear you,” said he ; for the din beneath, where 
they battered at the door, was now deafening. 

“ They’ll be in in another moment — there, the lock has 
fallen off — the door has given way,” whispered she; “be 
steady now, no hurry — steady and calm.” 

As she spoke, the heavy oak door fell to the ground, and 
a perfect silence succeeded to the late din. After an instant 
muttering whispers could be heard, and it seemed as if they 
doubted how far it was safe to enter, for all was dark within. 
Something was said in a tone of command, and at the mo- 
ment one of the party flung forward a bundle of lighted 
straw and tow, which fell at the foot of the stairs, and for 
a few seconds lit up the place with a red lurid gleam, show- 
ing the steep stair and the iron bars of the little gate that 
crossed it. 

“ There ’s the iron wicket they spoke of,” cried one. “ All 
right, come on ! ” And the speaker led the way, cautiously, 
however, and slowly, the others after him. 

“No, not yet,” whispered Kate, as she pressed her hand 
upon Walpole’s. 

“I hear voices up there,” cried the leader from below. 
“We’ll make them leave that, anyhow.” And he fired off 
his gun in the direction of the upper part of the stair ; a 
quantity of plaster came clattering down as the ball struck 
the ceiling. 

“ Now,” said she. “ Now, and fire low! ” 

He discharged both barrels so rapidly that the two deto- 
nations blended into one, and the assailants replied by a 
volley, the echoing din almost sounding like artillery. Fast 
as Walpole could fire, the girl replaced the piece by another ; 
when suddenly she cried, “ There is a fellow at the gate — 
the carbine — the carbine now, and steady.” A heavy crash 
and a cry followed his discharge, and snatching the weapon 
from him, she reloaded and handed it back with lightning 
speed. “ There is another there,” whispered she; and Wal- 


90 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


pole moved further out, to take a steadier aim. All was 
still ; not a sound to be heard for some seconds, when the 
hinges of the gate creaked and the bolt shook in the lock. 
Walpole fired again, but as he did so, the others poured in 
a rattling volley, one shot grazing his cheek, and another 
smashing both bones of his right arm, so that the carbine 
fell powerless from his hand. The intrepid girl sprang to 
his side at once, and then passing in front of him, she fired 
some shots from a revolver in quick succession. A low, 
confused sound of feet, and a scuttling noise followed, when 
a rough, hoarse voice cried out, ‘ ' Stop firing ; we are 
wounded, and going away.” 

Are you badly hurt? ” whispered Kate to Walpole. 

‘‘ Nothing serious : be still and listen ! ” 

“ There, the carbine is ready again. Oh, you cannot 
hold it — leave it to me,” said she. 

From the difficulty of removal, it seemed as though one 
of the party beneath was either killed or badly wounded, 
for it was several minutes before they could gain the outer 
door. 

“ Are they really retiring?” whispered Walpole. 

“Yes; they seem to have suffered heavily.” 

“Would }mu not give them one shot at parting — that 
carbine is charged ? ” asked he, anxiously. 

“Not for worlds,” said she; “savage as they are, it 
would be ruin to break faith with them.” 

“ Give me a pistol, my left hand is all right.” Though 
he tried to speak with calmness, the agony of pain he was 
suffering so overcame him that he leaned his head down, 
and rested it on her shoulder. 

“My poor, poor fellow,” said she, tenderly, “I would 
not for the world that this had happened.” 

“They’re gone. Miss Kate, they’ve passed out at the 
big gate, and they’re off,” whispered old Mathew, as he 
stood trembling behind her. 

“ Here, call some one, and help this gentleman up the 
stairs, and get a mattress down on the floor at once ; send 
off a messenger, Sally, for Dr. Tobin. He can take the 
car that came this evening, and let him make what haste 
he can.” 







/ '//■.} Ay/ // O// (}/^>r{'//') 






THE SEARCH FOR ARMS. 


91 


“Is he wounded?” said Nina, as they laid him down 
on the floor. Walpole tried to smile and say something, 
but no sound came forth. 

“ My own dear, dear Cecil,” w^hispered Nina, as she 
knelt and kissed his hand; “tell me it is not dangerous.” 
He had fainted. 


CHAPTER XI. 


WHAT THE PAPERS SAID OF IT. 

The wounded man had just fallen into a first sleep after 
his disaster, when the press of the capital was already 
proclaiming throughout the land the attack and search for 
arms at Kilgobbin Castle. In the national papers a very 
few lines were devoted to the event ; indeed their tone was 
one of party sneer at the importance given b}’- their con- 
temporaries to a very ordinary incident. “ Is there,” asked 
the “ Convicted Felon,” “anything very strange or new in 
the fact that Irishmen have determined to be armed? Is 
English legislation in this country so marked by justice, 
clemency, and generosity that the people of Ireland prefer to 
submit their lives and fortunes to its sway, to trusting what 
brave men alone trust in, — their fearlessness and their dar- 
ing? What is there, then, so remarkable in the repairing to 
Mr. Kearney’s house for a loan of those weapons of which 
his family for several generations have forgotten the use?” 
In the Government journals the story of the attack was 
headed, “Attack on Kilgobbin Castle. Heroic resistance 
by a young lady ; ” in which Kate Kearney’s conduct was 
described in colors of extravagant eulogy. She was alter- 
nately Joan of Arc and the Maid of Saragossa, and it was 
gravely discussed whether any and what honors of the 
Crown were at her Majesty’s disposal to reward such bril- 
liant heroism. In another print of the same stamp the 
narrative began: “The disastrous condition of our coun- 
try is never displayed in darker colors than when the totally 
unprovoked character of some outrage has to be recorded 
by the press. It is our melancholy task to present such a 
case as this to our readers to-day. If it was our wish to 


WHAT THE PAPERS SAID OF IT. 


93 


exhibit to a stranger the picture of an Irish estate in which 
all the blessings of good management, intelligence, kindli- 
ness, and Christian charity were displayed ; to show him 
a property wdiere the well-being of landlord and tenant were 
inextricably united, where the condition of the people, their 
dress, their homes, their food, and their daily comforts 
could stand comparison with the most favored English 
county, should point to the Kearney estate of Kilgob- 
bin ; and yet it is here, in the very house where his ances- 
tors have resided for generations, that a most savage and 
dastardly attack is made ; and if we feel a sense of shame 
in recording the outrage, we are recompensed by the proud 
elation with which we can recount tlie repulse, — the noble 
and gallant achievement of an Irish girl. History has the 
record of more momentous feats, but we doubt that there 
is one in the annals of any land in which a higher heroism 
was displayed than in this splendid defence by Miss Kear- 
ney.” Then followed the story ; not one of the papers 
having any knowledge of Walpole’s presence on the occa- 
sion, or the slightest suspicion that she was aided in any 
way. 

Joe Atlee was busily engaged in conning over and com- 
paring these somewhat contradictory reports, as he sat at 
his breakfast, his chum Kearney being still in bed and 
asleep after a late night at a ball. At last there came a 
telegraphic despatch for Kearney ; armed with which, Joe 
entered the bedroom and woke him. 

“Here’s something for you, Dick,” cried he. “Are 
you too sleepy to read it?” 

“Tear it open and see what it is, like a good fellow,” 
said the other, indolently. 

“It’s from your sister, — at least, it is signed Kate. It 
says : ‘ There is no cause for alarm. All is going on well, 
and papa will be back this evening. I write by this post.’ ” 

“ What does all that mean?” cried Dick, in surprise. 

“ The whole story is in the papers. The boys have taken 
the opportunity of your father’s absence from home to make 
a demand for arms at your house, and 3^0111* sister, it seems, 
showed fight and beat them off. The}" talk of two fellows 
being seen badly Vv"Ounded, but, of course, that part of the 


94 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


story cannot be relied on. That they got enough to make 
them beat a retreat is, however, certain ; and as they were 
what is called a strong party, the feat of resisting them is 
no small glory for a young lady.” 

“ It was just what Kate was certain to do. There’s no 
man with a braver heart.” 

“I wonder how the beautiful Greek behaved? I should 
like greatly to hear what part she took in the defence of the 
citadel. Was she fainting or in hysterics, or so overcome 
by terror as to be unconscious? ” 

“I’ll make you any wager you like, Kate did the whole 
thing herself. There was a Whiteboy attack to force the 
stairs when she was a child, and I suppose we rehearsed that 
combat fully fifty — ay, five hundred times. Kate always 
took the defence, and though we were sometimes four to one, 
she kept us back.” 

“ By Jove ! I think I should be afraid of such a young 
lady.” 

“ So you would. She has more pluck in her heart than 
half that blessed province you come from. That ’s the blood 
of the old stock you are often pleased to sneer at, and of 
which the present will be a lesson to teach you better.” 

“ May not the lovely Greek be descended from some 
ancient stock, too? Who is to say what blood of Pericles 
she has not in her veins ? I tell you I ’ll not give up the 
notion that she was a sharer in this glory.” 

“If you’ve got the papers with the account, let me see 
them, Joe. I’ve half a mind to run down by the night-mail, 
— that is, if I can. Have you got any tin, Atlee? ” 

“There were some shillings in one of my pockets last 
night. How much do you want? ” 

“ Eighteen-and-six first class, and a few shillings for a 
cab.” 

“ I can manage that ; but I ’ll go and fetch you the papers, 
there’s time enough to talk of the journey.” 

The newsman had just deposited the “Croppy” on the 
table as Joe returned to the breakfast-table, and the story of 
Kilgobbin headed the first column in large capitals. ‘ ‘ While 
our contemporaries,” it began, “are recounting with more 
than their wonted eloquence the injuries inflicted on three 


WHAT THE PAPERS SAID OF IT. 


95 


poor laboring-men, who, in their ignorance of the locality, 
had the temerity to ask for alms at Kilgobbin Castle yester- 
day evening, and were ignominiously driven away from the 
door by a young lady, wliose benevolence was administered 
through a blunderbuss, we, who form no portion of the polite 
press, and have no pretension to mix in what are euphuisti- 
cally called the ‘ best circles’ of this capital, would like to 
ask, for the information of those humble classes among 
which our readers are found, is it the custom for young 
ladies to await the absence of their fathers to entertain 
young gentlemen tourists? and is a reputation for even 
heroic courage not somewhat dearly purchased at the price 
of the companionship of the admittedly most profligate man 
of a vicious and corrupt society? The heroine who defended 
Kilgobbin can reply to our query.” 

Joe Atlee read this paragraph three times over before he 
carried in the paper to Kearney. 

“Here’s an insolent paragraph, Dick,” he cried, as he 
threw the paper to him on the bed. “Of course, it’s a 
thing cannot be noticed in any wa}q but it’s not the less 
rascally for that. ” 

“You know the fellow who edits this paper, Joe?” said 
Kearney, trembling with passion. 

“ No ; my friend is doing his bit of oakum at Kilmainham. 
They gave him thirteen months, and a fine that he ’ll never 
be able to pay ; but what would you do if the fellow w'ho 
wrote it were in the next room at this moment?” 

“ Thrash him within an inch of his life.” 

“And, with the inch of life left him, he’d get strong 
again and write at you and all belonging to you every day 
of his existence. Don’t you see that all this license is one 
of the prices of liberty? There’s no guarding against ex- 
cesses when you establish a rivalry. The doctors could tell 
you how many diseased lungs and aneurisms are made by 
training for a rowing-match.” 

“ I ’ll go down by the mail to-night and see what has given 
the origin to this scandalous falsehood.” 

“There’s no harm in doing that, especially if you take 
me with you.” 

“ Why should T take you, or for what?” 


96 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ As guide, counsellor, and friend/’ 

“ Bright thought, when all the money we can muster 
between us is only enough for one fare.” 

“ Doubtless, first class; but we could go third class, two 
of us for the same money. Do you imagine that Damon and 
Pythias would have been separated if it came even to travel- 
ling in a cow compartment?” 

“ I wish you could see that there are circumstances in life 
where the comic man is out of place.” 

“ I trust I shall never discover them ; at least, so long as 
fate treats me with ‘ heavy tragedy.’ ” 

“I’m not exactly sure either, whether they’d like to 
receive you just now at Kilgobbin.” 

“Inhospitable thought! My heart assures me of a most 
cordial welcome.” 

“ And I should only stay a day or two at farthest.” 

“ Which would suit me to perfection. I must be back 
here by Tuesday if I had to walk the distance.” 

“ Not at all improbable, so far as I know of your 
resources.” 

“ What a churlish dog it is ! Now had you. Master Dick, 
proposed to me that we should go down and pass a week at 
a certain small thatched cottage on the banks of the Ban, 
where a Presbyterian minister with eight olive branches 
vegetates, discussing tough mutton and tougher theology on 
Sundays, and getting through the rest of the week with the 
parables and potatoes. I ’d have said. Done I ” 

“ It was the inopportune time I was thinking of. Who 
knows what confusion this event may not have thrown 
tliem into? If you like to risk the discomfort, I make no 
objection.” 

‘ ‘ To so heartily expressed an invitation there can be but 
one answer, I yield.” 

“ Now look here, Joe, I ’d better be frank with you ; don’t 
try it on at Kilgobbin as vou do with me.” 

“ You are afraid of my insinuating manners, are you? ” 
“I am afraid of your confounded impudence, and of that 
notion you cannot get rid of, that your cool familiarity is a 
fashionable tone.” 

“ How men mistake themselves! I pledge you my word, 


AVHAT THE TAPERS SAID OF IT. 


97 


if I was asked what was the great blemish in my manner, 
I’d have said it was bashfulness.” 

“ Well, then, it is not I ” 

“ Are you sure, Dick, are you quite sure?” 

“ I am quite sure, and unfortunately for you, you’ll find 
that the majority agree with me.” 

“ ‘ A wise man should guard himself against the defects 
that he might have, without knowing it.’ That is a Persian 
proverb, which you will find in ‘ Hafiz.’ I believe you never 
read ‘ Hafiz ’ ! ” 

“ No, nor you either.” 

“ That’s true ; but I can make my own ‘ Hafiz,’ and just 
as good as the real article. By the way, are you aware that 
the water-carriers at Tehran sing ‘ Lalla Rookh,’ and believe 
it a national poem ? ” 

“ I don’t know, and I don’t care.” 

“ I’ll bring down an ‘ Anacreon ’ with me, and see if the 
Greek cousin can spell her way through an ode.” 

“And I distinctly declare you shall do no such thing.” 

“ Oh dear, oh dear, what an unamiable trait is envy ! By 
the way, was that your frock-coat I wore yesterday at the 
races? ” 

“I think you know it was; at least you remembered it 
when you tore the sleeve.” 

“True, most true; that torn sleeve was the reason the 
rascal would only let me have fifteen shillings on it.” 

“ And you ‘mean to say you pawned my coat? ” 

“ I left it in the temporary care of a relative, Dick ; but it 
is a redeemable mortgage, and don’t fret about it.” 

“ Ever the same ! ” 

“No, Dick, that means worse and worse ! Now, I am in 
the process of reformation. The natural selection, however, 
where honesty is in the series, is a slow proceeding, and the 
organic changes are very complicated. As I know, however, 
you attach value to the effect you produce in that coat, I ’ll 
go and recover it. I shall not need Terence or Juvenal till 
w'e come back, and I ’ll leave them in the avuncular hands 
till then.” 

“ I wonder }^ou ’re not ashamed of these miserable straits. ” 
“I am very much ashamed of the world that imposes 


98 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


them on me. I ’m thoroughly ashamed of that public in 
lacquered leather that sees me walking in broken boots. I ’m 
heartily ashamed of that well-fed, well-dressed, sleek society, 
that never so much as asked whether the intellectual-looking 
man in the shabby hat, who looked so lovingly at the spiced 
beef in the window, had dined yet, or was he fasting for a 
wager ? ” 

“ There, don’t carry away that newspaper ; I want to read 
over that pleasant paragraph again ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE JOURNEY TO THE COUNTRY. 

The two friends were deposited at the Moate station at a 
few minutes after midnight, and their available resources 
amounting to something short of two shillings, and the fare 
of a car and horse to Kilgobbin being more than three times 
that amount, they decided to devote their small balance to 
purposes of refreshment, and then set out for the castle on 
foot. 

“ It is a fine moonlight; I know all the short cuts, and I 
want a bit of walking besides,” said Kearney ; and though 
Joe was of a self-indulgent temperament, and would like to 
have gone to bed after his supper and trusted to the chapter 
of accidents to reach Kilgobbin by a conveyance some time, 
any time, he had to yield his consent and set out on the 
road. 

“ The fellow who comes with the letter-bag will fetch over 
our portmanteau,” said Dick, as they started. 

“ I wish you’d give him directions to take charge of me, 
too,” said Joe, who felt very indisposed to a long walk. 

“I like said Dick, sneeringly ; “3^011 are always 

telling me that you are the sort of fellow for a new colon}^ 
life in the bush, and the rest of it, and when it comes to a 
question of a few miles’ tramp on a bright night in June, 
you try to skulk it in every possible way. You’re a great 
humbug. Master Joe.” 

“ And you a very small humbug, and there lies the differ- 
ence between us. The combinations in your mind are so 
few, that, as in a game of only three cards, there is no skill 
in the pla3dng ; while in my nature, as in that game called 
tarocco, there are half a dozen packs mixed up together, 
and the address required to play them is considerable.” 


' > > 


100 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ You have a very satisfactory estimate of your own 
abilities, Joe.” 

“ And why not? If a clever fellow did n’t know he was 
clever, the opinion of the world on his superiority would 
probably turn his brain.” 

“ And what do you say if his own vanity should do it? ” 

“There is really no way of explaining to a fellow like 
you — ” 

“What do you mean by a fellow like me?” broke in 
Dick, somewhat angrily. 

“ I mean this, that 1 ’d as soon set to work to explain the 
theory of exchequer bonds to an Esquimau, as to make an 
unimaginative man understand something purely speculative. 
What 3 "ou, and scores of fellows like you, denominate vanity, 
is only another form of hopefulness. You and your brethren 
— for you are a large family — do not know what it is to 
Hope ! that is, you have no idea of what it is to build on the 
foundation of certain qualities you recognize in yourself, and 
to say that ‘ if I can go so far with such a gift, such another 
will help me on so much farther.’ ” 

“ I tell you one thing I do hope, which is, that the next 
time I set out a twelve miles’ walk, I ’ll have a companion 
less imbued with self-admiration.” 

“ And you might and might not find him pleasanter com- 
pany. Cannot you see, old fellow, that the very things you 
object to in me are what are wanting in you? They are, so 
to say, the complements of your own temperament.” 

“ Have you a cigar? ” 

“Two — take them both. I’d rather talk than smoke 
just now.” 

“ I am almost sorry for it, though it gives me the tobacco.” 

“ Are we on your father’s property yet? ” 

“ Yes; part of that village we came through belongs to 
us, and all this bog here is ours.” 

“Why don’t you reclaim it? Labor costs a mere nothing 
in this country. Why don’t you drain those tracts, and treat 
the soil with lime ? I ’d live on potatoes, I ’d make my family 
live on potatoes, and my son, and my grandson, for three 
generations, but I ’d win this land back to culture and 
productiveness.” 


THE JOURNEY TO THE COUNTRY. 


101 


“The fee-simple of the soil would n’t pay the cost. It 
would be cheaper to save the money and buy an estate.” 

“ That is one, and a very narrow view of it; but imagine 
the glory of restoring a lost tract to a nation, welcoming 
back the prodigal, and installing him in his place amongst 
his brethren. This was all forest once. Under the shade of 
the mighty oaks here those gallant O’Caharneys your ances- 
tors followed the chase, or rested at noontide, or skedaddled 
in double-quick before those smart English of the Pale, who 
I must say treated your forbears with scant courtesy.” 

“We held our own against them for many a year.” 

“ Only when it became so small it was not worth taking. 
Is not your father a Whig?” 

“He’s a Liberal, but he troubles himself little about 
parties.” 

“ He ’s a stout Catholic, though, is n’t he? ” 

“ He is a very devout believer in his Church,” said Dick, 
with the tone of one who did not desire to continue the 
theme. 

“ Then why does he stop at Whiggery? why not go in for 
nationalism and all the rest of it?” 

“ And what’s all the rest of it? ” 

“ Great Ireland, — no first flower of the earth or gem of 
the sea humbug, — but Ireland great in prosperity, her har- 
bors full of ships, tlie woollen trade, her ancient staple, 
revived : all that vast unused water-power, greater than all 
the steam of Manchester and Birmingham tenfold, at full 
work ; the linen manufacture developed and promoted — ” 

“ And the Union repealed? ” 

“ Of course ; that should be first of all. Not that I object 
to the Union, as many do, on the grounds of English igno- 
rance as to Ireland. My dislike is, that, for the sake of 
carrying through certain measures necessary to Irisli interests, 
I must sit and discuss questions which have no possible con- 
cern for me, and touch me no more than the debates in the 
Cortes, or the Reichskammer at Vienna. What do you or I 
care for who rules India, or who owns Turkey i What 
interest of mine is it whether Great Britain has five iron- 
clads or fifty, or whether the Yankees take Canada, and the 
Russians Caboul? ” 


102 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


‘‘You ’re a Fenian, and I am not.” 

“ I suppose you ’d call yourself an Englishman? ” 

“1 am an English subject, and I owe my allegiance to 
Blngland.” 

“Perhaps, for that matter, I owe some too; but I owe 
a great many things that I don’t distress myself about 
paying.” 

“ Whatever your sentiments are on these matters, — and, 
Joe, I am not disposed to think you have an}^ veiy fixed 
ones, — pray do me the favor to keep them to yourself while 
under my father’s roof. I can almost promise you he ’ll ob- 
trude none of his peculiar opinions on yow, and 1 hope you 
will treat him with a like delicacy.” 

“What will your folks talk, then? I can’t suppose they 
care for books, art, or the drama. There is no society, so 
there can be no gossip. If that yonder be the cabin of one 
of your tenants, I ’ll certainly not start the question of 
farming.” 

“ There are poor on every estate,” said Dick, curtly. 

“ Now, what sort of a rent does that fellow pay, — five 
pounds a year ? ” 

“ More likely five-and-twenty or thirty shillings.” 

“ Jove, I’d like to set up house in that fashion, and 
make love to some delicately nurtured miss, win her affec- 
tions, and bring her home to such a spot. AVould n’t that 
be a touchstone of affection, Dick ? ” 

“If I could believe you were in earnest, 1 ’d throw you 
neck and heels into that bog-hole.” 

“ Oh, if 3"ou would ! ” cried he, and there was a ring of 
truthfulness in his voice now there could be no mistakins:. 

Half ashamed of the emotion his idle speech had called up, 
and uncertain how best to treat the emergency, Kearney said 
nothing, and Atlee walked on for miles without a word. 

“ You can see the house now. It tops the trees ^^onder,” 
said Dick. 

“ That is Kilgobbin Castle, tlien? ” said Joe, slowly. 

“There’s not much of castle left about it. There is a 
square block of a tower, and you can trace the moat and 
some remains of outworks.” 

“ Shall I make you a confession, Dick? I envy you all 


THE JOURNEY TO THE COUNTRY. 


103 


that ! I envy you what smacks of a race, a name, an ances- 
try, a lineage. It ’s a great thing to be able to ‘ take up the 
running,’ as the folks say, instead of making all the race 
yourself ; and there ’s one inestimable advantage in it, it 
rescues you from all indecent haste about asserting your 
station. Y^ou feel yourself to be a somebody and you ’ve 
not hurried to proclaim it.. There now, my boy, if you ’d 
have said only half as much as that on the score of vour 
family, I ’d have called you an arrant snob. So much for 
consistency.” 

“ What you have said gave me pleasure. I’ll own that.” 

“ I suppose it was you planted those trees there. It was 
a nice thought, and makes the transition from the bleak bog 
to the cultivated land more easy and graceful. Now I see 
the castle well. It ’s a fine portly mass against the morning 
sky, and I perceive you fly a flag over it.” 

When the Lord is at home.” 

“ Ay, and by the way, do you give him his title while talk- 
ing to him here ? ” 

“ The tenants do, and the neighbors and strangers do as 
they please about it.” 

“ Does he like it himself? ” 

“If I was to guess, I should perhaps say he does like it. 
Here we are now. Inside this low gate you are within the 
demesne, and I may bid you welcome to Kilgobbin. We 
shall build a lodge here one of these days. There ’s a 
good stretch, however, yet to the castle. AYe call it two 
miles, and it’s not far short of it.” 

“ AYhat a glorious morning! There is an ecstasy in 
scentins: these nice fresh woods in the clear sunrise, and 
seeinsr those modest daffodils make their morning toilet.” 

“That’s a fancy of Kate’s. There is a border of such 
wild- flowers all the way to the house.” 

“And those rills of clear water that flank the road, are 
they of her designing ? ” 

“That they are. There was a cutting made for a rail- 
road line about four miles from this, and they came upon a 
sort of pudding-stone formation, made up chiefly of white 
pebbles. Kate heard of it, purchased the whole mass, and 
had these channels paved with them from the gate to the 


104 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


castle, and that ’s the reason this water has its crystal 
clearness.” 

“ She’s worthy of Shakspeare’s sweet epithet, the ‘dain- 
tiest Kate in Christendom.’ Here ’s her health ! ” and he 
stopped down, and filling his palm with the running water, 
drank it off. 

“I see it’s not yet five o’clock. We’ll steal quietly 
off to bed, and have three or four hours sleep before we 
show ourselves.” 


1 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A SICK-ROOM. 

Cecil Walpole occupied the state room and the state bed 
at Kilgobbin Castle ; but the pain of a very serious wound 
had left him very little faculty to know what honor was 
rendered him, or of what watchful solicitude he was the 
object. The fever brought on by his wound had obliter- 
ated in his mind all memory of where he was ; and it was 
only now — that is, on the same morning that the }"oung 
men had arrived at the castle — that he was able to con- 
verse without much difficulty, and enjoy the companionship 
of Lockwood, who had come over to see him and scarcely 
quitted his bedside since the disaster. 

“It seems going on all right,” said Lockwood, as he 
lifted the iced cloths to look at the smashed limb, which 
lay swollen and livid on a pillow outside the clothes. 

“ It ’s not pretty to look at, Harry ; but the doctor says 
‘we shall save it,’ — his phrase for not cutting it off.” 

“ They ’ve taken up two fellows on suspicion, and I 
believe they were of the party here that night.” 

“ I don’t much care about that. It was a fair fight, and 
I suspect I did not get the worst of it. What really does 
grieve me is to think how ingloriously one gets a wound 
that in real war would have been a title of honor.” 

“ If I had to give a V. C. for this affair, it would be to 
that fine girl I ’d give it, and not to you, Cecil.” 

“ So should I. There is no question whatever as to our 
respective shares in the achievement.” 

“ And she is so modest and unaffected about it all, and 
when she was showing me the position and the alcove, she 
never ceased to lay stress on the safety she enjoyed dur- 
ing the conflict.” 


106 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Then she said nothing about standing in front of me 
after I was wounded ? ” 

“ Not a word. She said a great deal about your coolness 
and indifference to danger, but nothing about her own.” 
“AYell, I suppose it’s almost a shame to own it, — not 
that I could have done anything to prevent it, — but she 
did step down one step of the stair and actually cover me 
from fire.” 

“She’s the finest girl in Europe,” said Lockwood, 
warmly. 

‘ ‘ And if it was not the contrast with her cousin, I ’d 
almost sa}^ one of the handsomest,” said Cecil. 

“The Greek is splendid, I admit that, though she’ll 
not speak — she’ll scarcely notice me.” 

“How is that?” 

“ I can’t imagine, except it might have been an awk- 
ward speech I made when we were talking over the row. 
I said, ‘Where were you? what were you doing all this 
time?’ ” 

“And what answer did she make you?” 

“None; not a word. She drew herself proudly up, and 
opened her eyes so large and full upon me that I felt I must 
have appeared some sort of monster to be so stared at.” 

“ I’ve seen her do that.” 

“ It was very grand and very beautiful ; but I ’ll be shot 
if I ’d like to stand under it again. From that time to this 
she has never deigned me more than a mere salutation.” 
“And are you good friends with the other girl?” 

“The best in the world. I don’t see much of her, for 
she ’s always abroad, over the farm or among the tenants : 
but when we meet we are very cordial and friendly.” 
“And the father, what is he like?” 

“My Lord is a glorious old fellow, full of hospitable plans 
and pleasant projects; but terribly distressed to think that 
this unlucky incident 'should prejudice you against Ireland. 
Indeed, he gave me to understand that there must have 
been some mistake or misconception in the matter, for the 
castle had never been attacked before; and he insists on 
saying that if you will stop here — I think he said ten years 
- — you ’ll not see another such occurrence.” 


A SICK-ROOM. 


107 


“It ’s rather a hard way to test the problem, though.’' 
“What’s more, he included me in the experimeut.” 

“And this title? Does he assume it, or expect it to be 
recognized? ” 

“1 can scarcely tell you. The Greek girl ‘ my Lords ’ 
him occasionally; his daughter, never. The servants 
always do so; and I take it that people use their own dis- 
cretion about it.” 

“Or do it in a sort of indolent courtes}^, as they call 
Marsala sherry, but take care at the same time to pass 
the decanter. I believe you telegraphed to his Excellency? ” 
“Yes; and he means to come over next week.” 

“Any news of Lady Maude?” 

“Only that she comes with him; and I ’m sorry for it.” 
“So am I, — deuced sorry! In a gossiping town like 
Dublin there will be surely some story afloat about these 
handsome girls here. She saw the Greek, too, at the Duke 
of Rigati’s ball at Rome, and she never forgets a name or a 
face. A pleasant trait in a wife! ” 

“Of course the best plan will be to get removed, and be 
safely installed in our old quarters at the castle before they 
arrive.” 

“We must hear what the doctor says.” 

“He ’ll say no, naturally, for he ’ll not like to lose his 
patient. He wdll have to conve}" you to town, and we ’ll 
try and make him believe it will be the making of him. 
Don’t you agree with me, Cecil, it’s the thing to do?” 

“I have not thought it over yet. I will to-day. By the 
way, I know it’s the thing to do,” repeated he, with an air 
of determination. “There will be all manner of reports, 
scandals, and falsehoods to no end about this business here; 
and when Lady Maude learns, as she is sure to learn, that 
the ‘ Greek girl ’ is in the story, I cannot measure the mis- 
chief that may come of it.” 

“Break off the match, eh?” 

“That is certainl}^ ‘ on the cards.’ ” 

“I suspect even that would n’t break your heart.” 

“I don’t say it would; but it would prove very inconven- 
ient in many ways. Danesbury has great claims on his 
party. He came here as Viceroy, dead against his will; 


108 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


and, depend upon it, he made his terms. Then if these 
people go out, and the Tories want to outbid them, Danes- 
bury could take — ay, and would take — office under them.” 
“1 cannot follow all that. All I know is, I like the old 
boy himself, though he is a bit pompous now and then, 
and fancies he’s Emperor of Russia.” 

“I wish his niece did n’t imagine she w^as an Imperial 
princess.” 

“That she does! I think she is the haughtiest girl I ever 
met. To be sure, she was a great beauty. ” 

“ TEas, Harry! What do you mean by ‘was’? Lady 
Maude is not eight-and-twenty.” 

“Ain’t she, though? Will you have a ten-pound note on 
it that she’s not over thirty-one; and 1 can tell you who 
could decide the wager?” 

“A delicate thought! — a fellow betting on the age of the 
girl he ’s going to marry! ” 

“Ten o’clock! — nearly half-past ten! ” said Lockwood, 
rising from his chair. “I must go and have some breakfast. 
I meant to have been down in time to-day, and breakfasted 
with the old fellow and his daughter; for coming late brings 
me to a the-a-tete with the Greek damsel, and it isn’t jolly, 
I assure you.” 

“Don’t you speak?” 

“Never a word! She’s generally reading a newspaper 
when I go in. She lays it down; but after remarking that 
she fears I ’ll find the coffee cold, she goes on with her 
breakfast, kisses her Maltese terrier, asks him a few ques- 
tions about his health, and whether he would like to be in a 
warmer climate, and then sails awaj^” 

“And how she walks! ” 

“ Is she bored here ? ” 

“She says not.” 

“She can scarcely like these people; they ’re not the sort 
of thing she has ever been used to. ” 

“She tells me she likes them; they certainly like her.” 
“Well,” said Lockwood, with a sigh, “she’s the most 
beautiful woman, certainly, I’ve ever seen; and, at this 
moment, I ’d rather eat a crust with a glass of beer under a 
hedge than I ’d go down and sit at breakfast with her.” 


A SICK-KOOM. 


109 


“I ’ll be shot if I ’ll not tell her that speech the first day 
I ’m down again.” 

“So you may; for by that time I shall have seen her for 
the last time.” And with this he strolled out of the room 
and down the stairs towards the breakfast-parlor. 

As he stood at the door, he heard the sound of voices 
laughing and talking pleasantly. He entered, and Nina 
arose as he came forward, and said, “Let me present my 
cousin, — Mr. Richard Kearney, Major Lockwood; his 
friend, Mr. Atlee.” 

The two young men stood up, — Kearney stiff and haughty, 
and Atlee with a sort of easy assurance that seemed to 
suit his good-looking but certainly snobbish style. As for 
Lockwood, he was too much a gentleman to have more than 
one manner, and he received these two men as he would 
have received any other two of any rank anywhere. 

“These gentlemen have been showing me some strange 
versions of our little incident here in the Dublin papers,” 
said Nina to Lockwood. “I scarcely thought we should 
become so famous.” 

“I suppose they don’t stickle much for truth,” said Lock- 
wood, as he broke his egg, in leisurely fashion. 

“They were scarcely able to provide a special corre- 
spondent for the event,” said Atlee; “but I take it they 
give the main facts pretty accurately and fairly.” 

“Indeed!” said Lockwood, more struck by the manner 
than by the words of the speaker. “They mention, then, 
that my friend received a bad fracture of the forearm.” 

“No, I don’t think they do; at least, so far as I have 
seen. They speak of a night attack on Kilgobbin Castle, 
made by an armed party of six or seven men with faces 
blackened, and their complete repulse through the heroic 
conduct of a 3^oung lady.” 

“The main facts, then, include no mention of poor Wal- 
pole and his misfortune? ” 

“1 don’t think that we mere Irish attach any great 
importance to a broken arm, whether it came of a cricket- 
ball or gun; but we do interest ourselves deepl}" when an 
Irish girl displaj^s feats of heroism and courage that men 
find it hard to rival.” 


110 


LORI) KILGOBBIN. 


“It was very fine,” said Lockwood, gravely. 

“Fine! I should think it was fine!” burst out Atlee. 
“It w'as so fine that, had the deed been done on the other 
side of this narrow sea, the nation would not have been 
satisfied till your Poet Laureate had commemorated it in 


verse. 

“Have they discovered any traces of the fellows?” said 
Lockwood, who declined to follow the discussion into this 
channel. 

“My father has gone over to Moate to-day,” said Kear- 
ney, now speaking for the first time, “to hear the examina- 
tion of tw^o fellows who have been taken up on suspicion.” 
“You have plenty of this sort of thing in your country,” 
said Atlee to Nina. 

“Where do you mean when you say my country? ” 

“I mean Greece.” 

“But I have not seen Greece since I w^as a- child, so high; 
I have lived always in Italy.” 

“Well, Italy has Calabria and the Terra del Lavoro.” 
“And how much do we in Rome know about either? ” 
“About as much,” said Lockwood, “as Belgravia does of 
the Bog of Allen.” 


“You ’ll return to your friends in civilized life with 
almost the fame of an African traveller. Major Lockwood,” 


said Atlee, pertly. 

“If Africa can boast such hospitality, I certainly rather 
envy than compassionate Dr. Livingstone,” said he, 
politely. 

“Somebody,” said Kearney, dryly, “calls hospitality the 
breeding of the savage.” 

“But I deny that we are savage,” cried Atlee. “I con- 
tend for it that all our civilization is higher, and that class 
for class we are in a more advanced culture than the Ens:- 
lish; that your chawbacon is not as intelligent a being as 
our bogtrotter; that your petty shopkeeper is inferior to 
ours; that throughout our middle classes there is not only 
a higher morality but a higher refinement than with you.” 

“I read in one of the most accredited journals of England 
the other day that Ireland had never produced a poet, could 
not even show a second-rate humorist,” said Kearnev. 


A SICK-ROOM. 


Ill 


“Swift and Sterne were third-rate, or, perhaps, English,” 
said Atlee. 

“These are themes I’ll not attempt to discuss,” said 
Lockwood; “but I know one thing, it takes three times 
as much military force to govern the smaller island.” 

“That is to say, to govern the country after fashion ; 
but leave it to ourselves. Pack your portmanteaus and go 
away, and then see if we ’ll need this parade of horse, foot, 
and dragoons ; these batteries of guns and these brigades of 
peelers.” 

“You ’d be the first to beg us to come back again.” 

“Doubtless, as the Greeks are begging the Turks. Eh, 
Mademoiselle; can you fancy throwing yourself at the feet 
of a Pasha and asking leave to be his slave? ” 

“The only Greek slave I ever heard of,” said Lockwood, 
“was in marble and made by an American.” 

“Come into the drawing-room and I’ll sing von some- 
thing,” said Nina, rising. 

“Which will be far nicer and pleasanter than all this dis- 
cussion,” said Joe. 

“And if you’ll permit me,” said Lockwood, “we’ll leave 
the drawing-room door open and let poor Walpole hear the 
music.” 

“Would it not be better first to see if he ’s asleep? ” said 
she. 

“That ’s true. I ’ll step up and see.” 

Lockwood hurried away; and Joe Atlee, leaning back in 
his chair, said, “Well, we gave the Saxon a canter, I 
think. As you know, Dick, that fellow is no end of a 
swell.” 

“You know nothing about him,” said the other, gruffly. 

“Only so much as newspapers could tell me. He ’s ]\Ias- 
ter of the Horse in the Viceroy’s household, and the other 
fellow is Private Secretary, and some connection besides. 
I say, Dick, it ’s all Iving James s times back again. Phere 
has not been so much grandeur here for six or eight gener- 
ations.” 

“There has not been a more absurd speech made than 
that, within the time.” 

“And he is really somebody? ” said Nina to Atlee. 


112 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“A gran signore davvero^^' said he, pompously. “If you 
don’t sing your very best for him, 1 ’ll swear you are a 
republican.” 

“Come, take my arm, Nina. I may call you Nina, may 
I not?” whispered Kearney. 

“Certainly, if I may call you Joe.” 

“You may, if you like,” said he, roughly; “but my name 
is Dick.” 

“I am Beppo, and very much at your orders,” said Atlee, 
stepping forward and leading her away, 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AT DINNER. 

They were assembled in the drawing-room before dinner, 
when Lord Kilgobbin arrived, heated, dusty, and tired after 
his twelve-miles’ drive. “I say, girls,” said he, putting 
his head inside the door, “is it true that our distinguished 
guest is not coming down to dinner; for, if so. I’ll not 
wait to dress?” 

“No, papa; he said he’d stay with Mr. Walpole. 
They ’ve been receiving and despatching telegrams all day, 
and seem to have the whole world on their hands,” said 
Kate. 

“Well, sir, what did you do at the sessions? ” 

“Yes, my Lord,” broke in Nina, eager to show her more 
mindful regard to his rank than Atlee displayed; “tell us 
your news.” 

“ I suspect we have got two of them, and are on the traces 
of the others. They are Louth men, and were sent special 
here to give me a lesson, as they call it. That ’s what our 
blessed newspapers have brought us to. Some idle vaga- ■ 
bond, at his wits’ end for an article, fastens on some 
unlucky country gentleman, neither much better nor worse 
than his neighbors, holds him up to public reprobation, 
perfectly sure that within a week’s time some rascal who 
owes him a grudge — the fellow he has evicted for non- 
payment of rent, the blackguard he prosecuted for perjury, 
or some other of the like stamp — will write a piteous letter 
to the editor, relating his wrongs. The next act of the 
drama is a notice on the hall-door, with a coffin at the top; 
and the piece closes with a charge of slugs in your body, as 
you are on your road to Mass. Now, if I had the making 

8 


114 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


of the laws, the first fellow I ’d lay haocls on would be the 
newspaper writer. Eh, Master Atlee, am I right?” 

“I go with you to the furthest extent, my Lord.” 

“I vote we hang Joe, then,” cried Dick. “He is the 
only member of the fraternity I have any acquaintance 
with.” 

“What! do you tell me that you write for the papers? ” 
asked my Lord, slyly. 

“He’s quizzing, sir; he knows right well I have no gifts 
of that sort.” 

“Here’s dinner, papa. Will you give Nina your arm? 
Mr. Atlee, you are to take me.” 

“You’ll not agree with me, Nina, my dear,” said the old 
man, as he led her along; “but I ’m heartily glad we have 
not that great swell who dined with us yesterday.” 

“I do agree with you, uncle, — I dislike him.” 

“Perhaps I am unjust to him; but I thought he treated 
us all with a sort of bland pity that I found very offensive.” 
“Yes; I thought that, too. His manner seemed to say, 

‘ I am very sorry for you, but what can be done? ’ ” 

“Is the other fellow — the wounded one — as bad?” 

She pursed up her lip, slightly shrugged her shoulders, 
and then said, “There ’s not a great deal to choose between 
them; but I think I like him better.” 

“How do you like Dick, eh?” said he, in a whisper. 

“Oh, so much,” said she, with one of her half downcast 
looks, but which never prevented her seeing what passed in 
her neighbor’s face. 

“Well, don’t let him fall in love with you^” said he, with 
a smile, “for it would be bad for you both.” 

“But why should he?” said she, with an air of inno- 
cence. 

“Just because I don’t see how he is to escape it. 
What ’s Master Atlee saying to you, Kitty? ” 

“He’s giving me some hints about horse-breaking,” said 
she, quietly. 

“Is he, by George! Well, I’d like to see him follow 
you over that fallen timber in the back lawn. "We ’ll have 
you out. Master Joe, and give you a field-day to-morrow,” 
said the old man. 


AT DINNER. 


115 


“I vote we do,” cried Dick; “unless, better still, we 
could persuade Miss Betty to bring the dogs over and give 
us a cub-hunt.” 

“I want to see a cub-hunt,” broke in Nina. 

“Do you mean that you ride to hounds. Cousin Nina?” 
asked Dick. 

“ I should think that any one who has taken the ox-fences 
on the Roman Campagua, as I have, might venture to face 
your small stone-walls here.” 

“That’s plucky, anyhow; and I hope, Joe, it will put 
you on your metal to show yourself worthy of your com- 
panionship. What is old Mathew looking so mysteriously 
about? What do you want? ” 

The old servant thus addressed had gone about the room 
with the air of one not fully decided to whom to speak; 
and at last he leaned over Miss Kearney’s shoulder, and 
whispered a few words in her ear. “Of course not, Mat! ” 
said she; and then turning to her father, — “Mat has such 
an opinion of my medical skill, he wants me to see Mr. 
Walpole, who, it seems, has got up, and evidently increased 
his pain by it.” 

“Oh, but is there no doctor near us?” asked Nina, 
eagerly. 

“I ’d go at once,” said Kate, frankly, “but my skill does 
not extend to surgery.” 

“I have some little knowledge in that way; I studied and 
walked the hospitals for a couple of years,” broke out Joe. 
“Shall I go up to him? ” 

“By all means,” cried several together; and Joe rose and 
followed Mathew upstairs. 

“Oh, are you a medical man?” cried Lockwood, as the 
other entered. 

“After a fashion, I may say I am. At least, I can tell 
you where my skill will come to its limit, and that is 
something.” 

“Look here, then; he would insist on getting up, and I 
fear he has displaced the position of the bones. You must 
be very gentle, for the pain is terrific.” 

“No; there ’s no great mischief done; the fractured parts 
are in a proper position. It is the mere pain of disturbance. 


116 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Cover it all over with the ice again, and ” — here he felt his 
pulse — “let him have some weak brandy-and-water.” 

“That’s sensible advice; 1 feel it. I am shivery all 
over,” said Walpole. 

“I ’ll go and make a brew for you,” cried Joe, “and you 
shall have it as hot as you can drink it.” 

He had scarcely left the room when he returned with the 
smoking compound. 

“You ’re such a jolly doctor,” said Walpole, “1 feel sure 
you ’d not refuse me a cigar? ” 

“Certainlv not.” 

%/ 

“Only think! that old barbarian who w^as here this morn- 
ing said I was to have nothing but weak tea or iced 
lemonade.” 

Lockwood selected a mild-looking weed, and handed it 
to his friend, and was about to offer one to Atlee, when he 
said, — 

“But we have taken you from your dinner; pray go back 
again.” 

“No, we were at dessert. I ’ll stay here and have a 
smoke, if you will let me. Will it bore you, though?” 

“On the contrary,” said Walpole, “your company will be 
a great boon to us; and as for myself, you have done me 
good already.” 

“What would you sa}^. Major Lockwood, to taking my 
place belowstairs? They are just sitting over their wdne, 
— some very pleasant claret; and the young ladies, 1 per- 
ceive, here, give half an hour of their company before they 
leave the dining-room.” 

“blere goes, then,” said Lockwood. “Now that you 
remind me of it, I do want a glass of wine.” 

Lockwood found the party belowstairs eagerly discussing 
Joe Atlee’s medical qualifications, and doubting whether, 
if it was a knowledge of civil engineering or marine gun- 
nery had been required, he would not have been equally ready 
to offer himself for the emergency. 

“I ’ll lay my life on it, if the real doctor arrives, Joe will 
take the lead in the consultation,” cried Dick; “he is the 
most unabashable villain in Europe.” 

“Well, he has put Cecil all right,” said Lockwood. “He 


AT DINNER. 


117 


has settled the arm most comfortably on the pillow, the 
pain is decreasing every moment, and by his pleasant and 
jolly talk he is making lYalpole even forget it at times.” 

This was exactly what Atlee was doing. Watching care- 
fully the sick man’s face, he plied him with just that amount 
of amusement that he could bear without fatigue. He told 
him the absurd versions that had got abroad of the incident 
in the press; and cautiously feeling his way, went on to tell 
how Dick Kearney had started from town full of the most 
fiery intentions towards that visitor whom the newspapers 
called a “noted profligate ” of London celebrity. “If you 
had not been shot before, we were to have managed it for 
you now,” said he. 

“Surely these fellows who wrote this had never heard 
of me.” 

“Of course they had not, further than you were on the 
Viceroy’s staff; but is not that ample warranty for profli- 
gacy? Besides, the real intention was not to assail you, 
but the people here who admitted you.” Thus talking, he 
led Walpole to own that he had no acquaintanceship with 
the Kearneys, that a mere passing curiosity to see the inter- 
esting house had provoked his request, to which the answer, 
coming from an old friend, led to his visit. Through this 
channel Atlee drew him on to the subject of the Greek girl 
and her parentage. As Walpole sketched the society of 
Rome, Atlee, who had cultivated the gift of listening fully 
as much as that of talking, knew where to seem interested 
by the views of life thrown out, and where to show a racy 
enjoyment of the little humoristic bits of description which 
the other was rather proud of his skill in deploying; and 
as Atlee always appeared so conversant with the family 
history of the people they were discussing, Walpole spoke 
with unbounded freedom and openness. 

“You must have been astonished to meet the ‘ Titian 
girl ’ in Ireland?” said .Joe, at last; for he had caught up 
the epithet dropped accidentally in the other’s narrative, and 
kept it for use. 

“AVas I not! but if my memory had been clearer, I 
should have remembered she had Irish connections. I had 
heard of Lord Kilgobbin on the other side of the Alps.” 


118 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


“I don’t doubt that the title would meet a readier accept- 
ance there than here.” 

“Ah, you think so! ” cried AValpole. “What is the 
meaning of a rank that people acknowledge or deny at 
pleasure? Is this peculiar to Ireland? ” 

“ If you had asked whether persons anywhere else would 
like to maintain such a strange pretension, I might perhaps 
have answered you.” 

“For the few minutes of his visit to me, I liked him; he 
seemed frank, hearty, and genial.” 

“I suppose he is, and I suspect this folly of the Lordship 
is no fancy of his own.” 

“Nor the daughter’s, then, I ’ll be bound? ” 

“No; the son, I take it, has all the ambition of the 
house.” 

“Do you know them well? ” 

“No, I never saw them till yesterday. The son and I 
are chums; we live together, and have done so these three 
years.” 

“You like your visit here, however?” 

“Yes. It’s rather good fun on the whole. I was afraid 
of the indoor life when I was coming down; but it’s 
pleasanter than I looked for.” 

“When I asked you the question, it was not out of idle 
curiosity. I had a strong personal interest in your answer. 
In fact, it was another way of inquiring whether it would 
be a great sacrifice to tear yourself away from this.” 

“No, inasmuch as the tearing-away process must take 
place in a couple of days, — three at farthest.” 

“That makes what I have to propose all the easier. It is 
a matter of great urgency for me to reach Dublin at once. 
This unlucky incident has been so represented by the news- 
papers as to give considerable uneasiness to the Govern- 
ment, and they are even threatened with a discussion on it 
in the House. Now, I ’d start to-morrow if I thought I 
could travel with safety. You have so impressed me with 
your skill, that, if I daredj I ’d ask you to convoy me up. 
Of course I mean as my physician.” 

“But I ’m not one, nor ever intend to be.” 

“You studied, however? ” 


AT DINNER. 


119 


“As I have done scores of things. I know a little bit of 
criminal law, have done some shipbuilding, rode haute ecole 
in Cooke’s circus, and, after M. Dumas, I am considered 
the best amateur macaroni-maker in Europe.” 

“And which of these careers do you intend to abide by?” 
“None; not one of them. ‘ Financing’ is the only pursuit 
that pays largely. 1 intend to go in for money.” 

“1 should like to hear your ideas on that subject.” 

“So you shall, as we travel up to town.” 

“You accept my offer then? ” 

“Of course 1 do. I am delighted to have so many hours 
in your company. I believe 1 can safely say I have that 
amount of skill to be of service to you. One begins his 
medical experience with fractures. They are the pot-hooks 
and hangers of surgery, and I have gone that far. Now, 
what are your plans? ” 

“My plans are to leave this early to-morrow, so as to rest 
during the hot hours of the day, and reach Dublin by 
nightfall. Why do you smile?.” 

“I smile at your notion of climate; but I never knew any 
man who had been once in Italy able to disabuse himself 
of the idea that there were three or four hours every sum- 
mer day to be passed with close shutters and iced drinks.” 
“Well, I believe I was thinking of a fiercer sun and a 
hotter soil than these. To return to my project; we can 
find means of posting, carriage and horses, in the village. 
1 forget its name.” 

“I’ll take care of all that. At what hour will you 
start? ” 

“I should say by six or seven. I shall not sleep; and I 
shall be all impatience till we are away.” 

“Well, is there anything else to be thought of?” 

“ There is, — that is, I have something on my mind, and 
I p.m debating with myself how far, on a half-hour’s 
acquaintance, I can make you a partner in it.” 

“I cannot help you by my advice. I can only say that 
if you like to trust me, I ’ll know how to respect the 
confidence.” 

Walpole looked steadil^^ and steadfastly-at him, and the 
examination seemed to satisfy him ; for he said, “ I will 


120 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


trust you, — not that the matter is a secret in any sense 
that involves consequences; but it is a thing that needs a 
little tact and discretion, a slight exercise of a light hand, 
which is what my friend Lockwood fails in. Now you could 
do it.” 

“If I can, I will. What is it? ” 

“Well, the matter is this. I have written a few lines 
here, very illegibly and badly, as you may believe, for they 
were with my left hand ; and besides having the letter con- 
veyed to its address, I need a few w’ords of explanation.” 

“The Titian girl,” muttered Joe, as though thinking 
aloud. 

“Why do you say so? ” 

“Oh, it was easy enough to see her greater anxiet}" and 
uneasiness about you. There w’as an actual flash of 
jealousy across her features when Miss Kearney proposed 
coming up to see you.” 

“And was this remarked, think you? ” 

“Only by me. 1 saw, and let her see I saw it, and we 
understood each other from that moment.” 

“1 must n’t let you mistake me. You are not to suppose 
that there is anything between Mademoiselle Kostalergi and 
myself. I knew a good deal about her father, and there 
were family circumstances in wLich I was once able to be 
of use; and I wished to let her know that if at any time she 
desired to communicate with me I could procure an address 
under which she could write wdth freedom.” 

“As for instance; ‘ J. Atlee, 48 Old Square, Trinity Col- 
lege, Dublin. ’ ” 

“Well, I did not think of that at the moment,” said Wal- 
pole, smiling. “Now,” continued he, “though I have 
written all this, it is so blotted and disgraceful generally — 
done with the left hand and while in great pain — that I 
think it would be as well not to send the letter, but simply 
a message — ” 

Atlee nodded, and Walpole went on: “A message to say 
that I was wishing to write, but unable; and that if I had 
her permission, so soon as my fingers could hold a pen, to 
finish — yes, to finish that communication I had already 
begun; and if she felt there was no inconvenience in wu’it- 


AT DINNER. 


121 


ing to me, under cover to your care, I should pledge my- 
self to devote all my zeal and my best services to her 
interests.” 

“In fact, I am to lead her to suppose she ought to have 
the most implicit confidence in you, and to believe in me 
because I say so.” 

“I do not exactly see that these are my instructions to 
you.” 

“Well, you certainly want to write to her.” 

“I don’t know that I do.” 

“At all events, you want her to write to you,’^ 

“You are nearer the mark now.” 

“That ought not to be very difficult to arrange. I ’ll go 
down now and have a cup of tea; and I may, I hope, come 
up and see you again before bedtime.” 

“Wait one moment,” cried Walpole, as the other was 
about to leave the room. “Do you see a small tray on that 
table yonder, with some trinkets? Yes, that is it. Well, 
will you do me the favor to choose something amongst 
them as your fee? Come, come, you know you are my 
doctor now, and I insist on this. There ’s nothing of any 
value there, and you will have no misgivings.” 

“Am I to take it haphazard? ” asked Atlee. 

“Whatever you like,” said the other, indolently. 

“I have selected a ring,” said Atlee, as he drew it on his 
finger. 

“Not an opal? ” 

“Yes, it is an opal with brilliants round it.” 

“I ’d rather you ’d taken all the rest than that. Not that 
I ever wear it, but somehow it has a bit of memory attached 
to it! ” 

“Do you know,” said Atlee, gravel}^, “you are adding 
immensely to the value I desired to see in it? I wanted 
something as a souvenir of you, — what the Germans call an 
Andenken ; and here is evidently what has some secret clew 
to your affections. It was not an old love-token ? ” 

“No; or I should certainly not part with it.” 

“It did not belong to a friend now no more?” 

“Nor that, either,” said he, smiling at the other’s per- 
sistent curiosity. 


122 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Then, if it be neither the gift of an old love nor a lost 
friend, I ’ll not relinquish it,” cried Joe. 

“Be it so,” said Walpole, half carelessly. “Mine was a 
mere caprice, after all. It is linked with a reminiscence, 
— there’s the whole of it; but if you care for it, pray 
keep it.” 

“I do care for it, and I will keep it.” 

It was a very peculiar smile that curled Walpole’s lip as 
he heard this speech; and there was an expression in his 
eyes that seemed to say, “ What manner of man is this; 
what sort of nature, new and strange to me, is he made 
of?” 

“By-bye!” said Atlee, carelessly; and he strolled away. 


CHAPTER XV. 


IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK. 

V HEN Atlee quitted Walpole’s room, he was far too full of 
doubt and speculation to wish to join the company in the 
drawing-room. He had need of time to collect his thoughts, 
too, and arrange his plans. This sudden departure of his 
would, he well knew, displease Kearney. It would savor 
of a degree of impertinence, in treating their hospitality so 
cavalierly, that Dick was certain to resent, and not less 
certain to attribute to a tuft-hunting weakness on Atlee’s 
part of which he had frequently declared he detected signs 
in Joe’s character. 

““Be it so. 1 ’ll only say, you ’ll not see me cultivate 
‘ swells ’ for the pleasure of their society, or even the charms 
of their cookeiy. If I turn them to no better uses than dis- 
play, Master Dick, you may sneer freely at me. I have 
long wanted to make acquaintance with one of these fellows, 
and luck has now given me the chance. Let us see if I 
know how to profit by it.” 

And, thus muttering to himself, he took his way to the 
farm-yard, to find a messenger to despatch to Kilgobbin for 
post-horses. 

The fact that he was not the owner of a half-crown in the 
world very painfully impressed itself on a negotiation 
which, to be prompt, should be prepaid, and which he was 
endeavoring to explain to two or three very idle but very 
incredulous listeners, not one of whom could be induced to 
accept a ten miles’ tramp of a drizzling night without the 
prompting of a tip in advance. 

“It’s every step of eight miles,” cried one. 

“No; but it’s ten,” asseverated another with energy, “by 
rayson that you must go by the road. There ’s nobody 
would venture across the bog in the dark.” 


124 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Wid five shillings in my hand — ” 

“And five more when ye come back,” continued another, 
who was terrified at the low estimate so rashly adventured. 

“If one had even a shilling or two to pay for a drink 
when he got in to Kilbeggan wet through and shivering — ” 

The speaker was not permitted to finish his ignominiously 
low proposal, and a low growl of disapprobation smothered 
his words. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Joe, angrily, “that 
there ’s not a man here will step over to the town to order a 
chaise and post-horses? ” 

“And if yer honor will put his hand in his pocket and 
tempt us with a couple of crown pieces, there ’s no saying 
what we would n’t do,” said a little bandy old fellow, who 
was washing his face at the pump. 

“And are crown-pieces so plentiful with you down here 
that you can earn them so easily?” said Atlee, with a 
sneer. 

“ Be me sowl, yer honor, it’s thinking that they’re not so 
asy to come at, makes us a bit lazy this evening ! ” said a 
ragged fellow, with a grin, which was quickly followed by a 
hearty laugh from those around him. 

Something that sounded like a titter above his head made 
Atlee look up ; and there, exactly over where he stood, was 
Nina, leaning over a little stone balconj^ in front of a win- 
dow, an amused witness of the scene beneath. 

“ I have two words for yourself,” cried he to her in 
Italian. “Will you come down to the garden for one 
moment? ” 

“Cannot the two words be said in the drawing-room?” 
asked she, half saucily, in the same language. 

“No; they cannot be said in the drawing-room,” con- 
tinued he, sternly. 

“ It’s dropping rain. I should get wet.” 

“ Take an umbrella, then, but come. Mind me. Signora 
Nina, I am the bearer of a message for you.” 

There was something almost disdainful in the toss of her 
head as she heard these words, and she hastily retired from 
the balcony and entered the room. 

Atlee watched her, by no means certain what her gesture 


IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK. 


125 


might portend. Was she indignant with him for the liberty 
he had taken? or was she about to comply with his request, 
and meet him ? He knew" too little of her to determine which 
was the more likely ; and he could not help feeling that, had 
he only known her longer, his doubt might have been just as 
great. Her mind, thought he, is perhaps like my own ; it 
has many turnings, and she ’s never very certain wdiich one 
of them she wdll follow". Somehow, this imputed wilfulness 
gave her, to his eyes, a charm scarcely second to that of her 
exceeding beauty. And what beauty it was ! The very 
perfection of symmetry in every feature when at rest, w^hile 
the varied expressions of her face as she spoke or smiled 
or listened, imparted a fascination which only needed the 
charm of her low liquid voice to be irresistible. 

How she vulgarizes that pretty girl, her cousin, by mere 
contrast ! What subtle essence is it, apart from hair and 
eyes and skin, that spreads an atmosphere of conquest over 
these natures, and how is it that men have no ascendencies 
of this sort, — nothing that imparts to their superiority the 
sense that w"orship of them is in itself an ecstasy? 

“ Take my message into tow"n,’' said he to a fellow near, 
“ and you shall have a sovereign w"hen you come back with 
the horses ; ” and with this he strolled aw^ay across a little 
paddock and entered the garden. It w’as a large, ill-culti- 
vated space, more orchard than garden, with patches of 
smooth turf, through which daffodils and lilies w"ere scat- 
tered, and little clusters of carnations occasionally showed, 
w'here flow"er-beds had once existed. “ What w"ould I not 
give,” thought Joe, as he strolled along the velvety sward, 
over which a clear moonlight had painted the forms of many 
a straggling branch, — “ w"hat w'ould I not give to be the son 
of a house like this, with an old and honored name, with an 
ancestry strong enough to build upon for future preten- 
sions, and then w"ith an old home, peaceful, tranquil, and 
unmolested ; where, as in such a spot as this, one might 
dream of great things, perhaps more, might achieve them ! 
What books would I not write! What novels, in w'hich, 
fashioning the hero out of my own heart, I could tell scores 
of impressions the world had made upon me in its aspect of 
religion or of politics or of society ! What essays could I 


126 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


not compose here, — the mind elevated by that buoyancy 
which comes of the consciousness of being free for a great 
effort ! Free from the vulgar interruptions that cling to 
poverty like a garment, free from the paltry cares of daily 
subsistence, free from the damaging incidents of a doubtful 
position and a station that must be continually asserted. 
That one disparagement, perhaps, worst of all,” cried he, 
aloud : “how is a man to enjoy his estate if he is ‘ put upon 
his title ’ every day of the week ? One might as well be a 
French Emperor, and go every spring to the country for a 
character.” 

“ What shocking indignity is this you are dreaming of? ” 
said a very soft voice near him ; and turning he saw Nina, 
who was moving across the grass, with her dress so draped 
as to show the most perfect instep and ankle wdth a very 
unguarded indifference. 

“ This is very damp for you; shall we not come out into 
the walk?” said he. 

“It is very damp,” said she, quickly; “but I came be- 
cause you said you had a message for me : is this true ? ” 

“ Do you think I could deceive you? ” said he, with a sort 
of tender reproachfulness. 

“ It might not be so very easy, if you were to try,” 
replied she, laughing. 

“ That is not the most gracious way to answer me.” 

“ Well, I don’t believe we came here to pay compliments ; 
certainly I did not, and my feet are very wet already, — look 
there and see the ruin of a ‘ chaussure ’ I shall never replace 
in this dear land of coarse leather and hobnails.” 

As she spoke, she showed her feet, around which her 
bronzed shoes hung limp and misshapen. 

“Would that 1 could be permitted to dry them with my 
kisses ! ” said he, as, stooping, he wiped them with his hand- 
kerchief, but so deferentially and so respectfully, as though 
the homage had been tendered to a princess. Nor did she 
for a moment hesitate to accept the service. 

“There, that will do,” said she, haughtily. “Now for 
your message.” 

“We are going away. Mademoiselle,” said Atlee, with a 
melancholy tone. 


IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK. 


127 


“ And who are ‘ we,’ sir? ” 

“ By ‘ we,’ Mademoiselle, I meant to convey Walpole and 
myself.” And now he spoke with the irritation of one who 
had felt a piill-np. 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” said she, smiling, and showing her pearly 
teeth. “ ‘ We’ meant Mr. Walpole and Mr. Atlee.” 

“ You should never have guessed it?” cried he, in question. 

‘‘ Never, — certainly,” was her cool rejoinder. 

“Well! He was less defiant, or mistrustful, or whatever 
be the name for it. We were only friends of half an hour’s 
growth when he proposed the journey. He asked me to 
accompany him as a favor ; and he did more. Mademoiselle : 
he confided to me a mission, — a very delicate and confiden- 
tial mission, — such an office as one does not usually depute 
to him of whose fidelity or good faith he has a doubt, not to 
speak of certain smaller qualities, sucli as tact and good 
taste.” 

“Of whose possession Mr. Atlee is now asserting him- 
self?” said she, quietly. 

He grew crimson at a sarcasm whose impassiveness made 
it all the more cutting. 

“My mission was in this wise. Mademoiselle,” said he, 
with a forced calm in his manner. “I was to learn from 
Mademoiselle Kostalergi if she should desire to communicate 
with Mr. Walpole touching certain family interests in which 
his counsels might be of use; and in this event I was to 
place at her disposal an address by which her letters should 
reach him.” 

“No, sir,” said she, quietly, “you have totally mistaken 
any instructions that were given you. Mr. Walpole never 
pretended that I had written or was likely to write to him ; 
he never said that he was in any way concerned in family 
questions that pertained to me ; least of all, did he presume 
to suppose that if I had occasion to address him by letter, I 
should do so under cover to another.” 

“You discredit my character of envoy, then?” said he, 
smiling easily. 

“Totally and completely, Mr. Atlee; and I only wait for 
you yourself to admit that I am right, to hold out my hand 
to you, and say let us be friends.” 


128 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I’d perjure myself twice at such a price. Now for the 
baud.” 

“Not so fast, — first the confession,” said she, with a 
faint smile. 

“ AV'ell, on my honor,” cried he, seriously, “he told me 
he hoped you might write to him. I did not clearly under- 
stand about what, but it pointed to some matter in which a 
family interest was mixed up, and that you might like your 
communication to have the reserve of secrecy.” 

“All this IS but a modified version of what you were to 
disavow.” 

“ AVell, I am only repeating it now to show you how far 1 
am going to perjure myself.” 

“That is, you see, in fact, that Mr. Walpole could never 
have presumed to give you such instructions, — that gentle- 
men do not send such messages to young, ladies, — do not 
presume to say that they dare do so ; and last of all, if they 
ever should chance upon one whose nice tact and cleverness 
would have fitted him to be the bearer of such a commission, 
those same qualities of tact and cleverness would have saved 
him from undertaking it. That is what vou see, Mr. Atlee, 
is it not? ” 

“You are right. I see it all.” And now he seized her 
hand and kissed it as though he had w^on the right to that 
rapturous enjoyment. 

She drew her hand away, but so slowly and so gently as 
to convey nothing of rebuke or displeasure. “ And so you 
are going away?” said she, softly. 

“ Yes ; Walpole has some pressing reason to be at once in 
Dublin. He is afraid to make the journey without a doctor ; 
but rather than risk delay in sending for one, he is willing 
to take me as his body surgeon, and I have accepted the 
charge.” 

The frankness with which he said this seemed to influence 
her in his favor, and she said, with a tone of like candor, 
“ You were right. His family are people of influence, and 
will not readily forget such a service.” 

Though he winced under the words, and showed that it 
was not exactly the mode in which he wanted his courtesy 
to be regarded, she took no account of the passing irrita- 
tion, but went on : — 


IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK. 


129 


“ If you fancy you know something about me, Mr. Atlee, 
7‘know far more about you. Your chum, Dick Kearney, has 
been so outspoken as to his friend, that my cousin Kate and 
I have been accustomed to discuss you like a near acquaint- 
ance — what am I saying? — I mean like an old friend.” 

“ 1 am very grateful for this interest; but will you kindly 
say what is the version my friend Dick has given of me? 
what are the lights that have fallen upon my humble 
character? ” 

“ Do you fancy that either of us have time at this moment 
to open so large a question? Would not the estimate of Mr. 
Joseph Atlee be another mode of discussing the times we 
live in, and the young gentlemen, more or less ambitious, 
who want to influence them ? AVould not the question embrace 
everything, from the difficulties of Ireland to the puzzling 
embarrassments of a clever young man who has everything 
in his favor in life, except the only thing that makes life 
worth living for? ” 

“ You mean fortune, — money? ” 

“Of course I mean money. What is so powerless as 
poverty? Do I not know it, — not of yesterday, or the day 
before, but for many a long year? What so helpless, what 
so jarring to temper, so dangerous to all principle, and so 
subversive of all dignity? 1 can afford to say these things, 
and you can afford to hear them, for there is a sort of 
brotherhood between us. We claim the same land for our 
origin. Whatever our birthplace, we are both Bohemians ! ” 
She held out her hand as she spoke, and with such an air 
of cordiality and frankness that Joe caught the spirit of the 
action at once, and, bending over, pressed his lips to it, as 
he said, “ I seal the bargain.” 

“ And swear to it? ” 

“ I swear to it,” cried he. 

“There, that is enough. Let us go back, or rather, let 
me go back alone. I will tell them I have seen you, and 
heard of your approaching departure.” 


9 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE TWO “ KEARNEYS.” 

A VISIT to his father was not usually one of those things that 
young Kearney either speculated on with pleasure before- 
hand, or much enjoyed when it came. Certain measures of 
decorum, and some still more pressing necessities of economy, 
required that he should pass some months of every year at 
home ; but they were always seasons looked forward to with 
a mild terror, and when the time drew nigh, met with a 
species of dogged fierce resolution that certainly did not 
serve to lighten the burden of the infliction ; and though 
Kate’s experience of this temper was not varied by any 
exceptions, she would still go on looking with pleasure for 
the time of his visit, and plotting innumerable little scliemes 
for enjoyment while he should remain. The first day or tw'o 
after his arrival usually went over pleasantly enough. Dick 
came back full of his town life, and its amusements ; and 
Kate was quite satisfied to accept gayety at second-hand. 
He had so much of balls, and picnics, and charming rides 
in the Phoenix, of garden-parties in the beautiful environs 
of Dublin, or more pretentious entertainments, that took 
the shape of excursions to Bray or Killiney. She came 
at last to learn all his friends and acquaintances by name, 
and never confounded the stately beauties that he wor- 
shipped afar off, with the “ awfully jolly girls ’’whom he 
flirted with quite irresponsibly. She knew, too, all about his 
male companions, from the flash young fellow-commoner 
from Downshire, who had a saddle-horse and a mounted 
groom waiting for him every day after morning lecture, 
down to that scampish Joe Atlee, with whose scrapes and 
eccentricities he filled many an idle hour. 

Independently of her gift as a good listener, Kate would 
very willingly have heard all Dick’s adventures and descrip- 


THE TWO “KEARNEYS.” 


131 


tions not only twice but tenth told ; just as the child listens 
with unwearied attention to the fairy tale whose eud he is 
well aware of, but still likes the little detail falling fresh 
upon his ear, so would this young girl make him go over 
some narrative she knew by heart, and would not suffer him 
to omit the slightest incident or most trilling circumstance 
that heightened the history of the story. 

As to Dick, however, the dull monotony of the daily life, 
the small and vulgar interests of the house or the farm, 
which formed the only topics, the undergrowl of economy 
that ran through every conversation, as though penurious- 
ness was the great object of existence, — but, perhaps more 
than all these together, the early hours, — so overcame him 
that he at first became low-spirited, and then sulky, seldom 
appearing save at meal- times, and certainly contributing 
little to the pleasure of the meeting; so that at last, though 
ehe might not easily have been brought to the confession, 
Kate Kearney saw the time of Dick’s departure approach 
without regret, and w'as actually glad to be relieved from 
that terror of a rupture betw^een her father and her brother 
of w'hich not a day passed without a menace. 

Like all men w’ho aspire to something in Ireland, Kearney 
desired to see his son a barrister; for great as are the re- 
wards of that high career, they are not the fascinations 
w'hich appeal* most strongly to the squirearchy, wLo love to 
think that a country gentleman may know a little law and 
be never the richer for it, — may have acquired a profes- 
sion, and yet never know what w^as a client or what a fee. 

That Kearney of. Kilgobbin Castle should be reduced to 
tramping his wmy down the Bachelor’s AYalk to the Four 
Courts, with a stuff bag carried behind him, wms not to be 
thought of; but there were so many positions in life, so 
many situations for which that gifted creature the barrister 
of six years’ standing was alone eligible, that Kearney was 
very anxious his son should be qualified to accept that 
£1000 or £1800 a 3 mar wFich a gentleman could hold with- 
out any shadow upon Ms capacity, or the slightest reflec- 
tion on his industry. 

Dick Kearney, how^ever, had not onl^" been living a veiy 
ga}^ life in town, but, to avail himself of a variet}’^ of those 


132 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


flattering attentions which this interested world bestows by 
preference on men of some pretension, had let it be believed 
that he was the heir to a very considerable estate, and, by 
great probability, also to a title. To have admitted that 
he thought it necessary to follow any career at all would 
have been to abdicate these pretensions, and so he evaded 
that question of the law, in all discussions with his father, 
sometimes affecting to say he had not made up his mind, 
or that he had scruples of conscience about a barrister’s 
calling, or that he doubted whether the Bar of Ireland was 
not, like most high institutions, going to be abolished by 
Act of Parliament, and all the litigation of the land be 
done by deputy in Westminster Hall. 

On the morning after the visitors took their departure 
from Kilgobbiu, old Kearney, who usuall}" relapsed from any 
exercise of hospitality into a more than ordinaiy amount of 
parsimony, sat thinking over the various economies by 
which the domestic budget could be squared, and after a 
very long seance with old Gill, in which the question of 
raising some rents and diminishing certain bounties was 
discussed, he sent up the steward to Mr. Richard’s room to 
say he wanted to speak to him. 

Dick at the time of the message was stretched full length 
on a sofa, smoking a meerschaum, and speculating how it 
was that the “swells” took to Joe Atlee, and what they saw 
in that confounded snob, instead of himself. Having in a 
desfree satisfied himself that Atlee’s success was all owino- 

o o 

to his intense and outrageous flattery, he was startled from 
his reveiy b}^ the servant’s entrance. 

“How is he this morning, Tim?” asked he, with a know- 
ing look. “Is he fierce? is there anything up? have the 
heifers been passing the night in the wheat, or has any one 
come over from Moate with a bill? ” 

“No, sir, none of them; but his blood’s up about some- 
thing. Quid Gill is gone down the stair, swearing like 
mad, and Miss Kate is down the road, with a face like a 
turkey-cock.” 

“I think you’d better sa}" I was out, Tim, — that you 
couldn’t find me in my room.” 

“I dare n’t, sir. He saw that little Skye terrier of yours 


THE TWO “KEARNEYS.” 


133 


below, and he said to me, ‘ Mr. Dick is sure to be at home; 
tell him I want him immediately.’ ” 

“But if I had a bad headache, and could n’t leave my bed, 
wouldn’t that be excuse enough?” 

“ It would make him come here. And if I was you, sir, 
I ’d go where I could get away myself, and not where he 
could stay as long as he liked.” 

“There ’s something in that. I ’ll go, Tim. Say I ’ll be 
down in a minute.” 

Very careful to attire himself in the humblest costume of 
his wardrobe, and specially mindful that neither studs nor 
watch-chain should offer offensive matter of comment, he 
took his way towards the dreary little den, which, filled 
with old top-boots, driving-whips, garden-implements, and 
fishing-tackle, was known as “the Lord’s study,” but whose 
sole literary ornament was a shelf of antiquated almanacs. 
There was a strange grimness about his father’s aspect 
which struck young Kearney as he crossed the threshold. 
His face wore the peculiar sardonic expression of one who 
had not only hit upon an expedient, but achieved a surprise, 
as he held an open letter in one hand and he motioned with 
the other to a seat. 

“ I ’ve been waiting till these people were gone, Dick, — 
till we had a quiet house of it, — to say a few words to you. 
I suppose your friend Atlee is not coming back here? ” 

“I suppose not, sir.” 

“I don’t like him, Dick; and I ’m much mistaken if he 
is a good fellow.” 

“I don’t think he is actually a bad fellow, sir. He is 
often terribly hard up, and has to do scores of shifty 
things; but I never found him out in anything dishonorable 
or false.” 

“That ’s a matter of taste, perhaps. Maybe you and I 
might differ about what was honorable or what was false. 
At all events, he was under our roof here ; and if those nobs 
— or swells, I believe you call them — were like to be of use 
to any of us, we, the people that were entertaining them, 
were the first to be thought of ; but your pleasant friend 
thought differently, and made such good use of his time that 
he cut you out altogether, Dick, — he left you nowhere.” 


134 


LORD KTLGOBBIX. 


“Really, sir, it never occurred to me till now to take that 
view of the situation.” 

“Well, take that view of it now, and see how you ’ll like 
it! You have your way to work in life as well as Mr. 
Atlee. From all I can judge, you ’re scarcely as well calcu- 
lated to do it as he is. You have not his smartness, }"ou 
have not his brains, and you have not his impudence, — and, 
faith, I ’m much mistaken but it ’s the best of the three! ” 

“I don’t perceive, sir, that we are necessarily pitted 
against each other at all.” 

“Don’t you? Well, so much the worse for you if you 
don’t see that every fellow that has nothing in the world is 
the rival of every other fellow that ’s in the same plight. 
For every one that swims, ten, at least, sink.” 

“Perhaps, sir, to begin, I never fully realized the first 
condition. I was not exactly aware that. I was wdthout 
anything in the world.” 

“I ’m coming to that, if you ’ll have a little patience. 
Here is a letter from Tom McKeown, of Abbey Street. I 
wrote to him about raising a few hundreds on mortgage, to 
clear off some of our debts, and have a trifle in hand for 
drainage and to buy stock, and he tells me that there ’s no 
use in going to any of the mone3"-lenders so long as }"Our 
-extravagance continues to be the talk of the town. A3", 
you need n’t grow red nor frown that wa3v The letter was 
a private one to myself, and I ’m 01113^ telling it to you in 
confidence. Hear what he sa3"s: ‘ You have a right to 
make 3"our son a fellow-commoner if 3"ou like, and he has 
a right, by his father’s own showing, to behave like a man 
of fortune; hut neither of vou have a right to believe that 
men w"ho advance mone3" will accept these pretensions as 
good security, or think anything but the worse of you both 
for your extravagance. ’ ” 

“And you don’t mean to horsewhip him, sir?” burst out 
Dick. 

“Not, at any rate, till I pay off two thousand pounds 
that I owe him, aiid two years’ interest at six per cent, 
that he has suffered me to become his debtor for.” 

“Lame as he is, I ’ll kick him before twenty-four hours 
are over.” 


THE TWO ‘‘KEARNEYS.” 


135 


“If you do, he’ll shoot you like a dog; aud it wouldn’t 
be the first time he handled a pistol. No, no. Master 
Dick. Whether for better or worse, I can’t tell; but the 
world is not what it was when I was your age. There ’s no 
provoking a man to a duel nowadays; nor no posting him 
when he won’t fight. Whether it ’s your fortune is damaged 
or your feelings hurt, you must look to the law to redress 
you; and to take your cause into your own hands is to have 
the whole world against you.” 

“And this insult is, then, to be submitted to?” 

“It is, first of all, to be ignored. It ’s the same as if you 
never heard it. Just get it out of your head, and listen to 
what he says. Tom McKeown is one of the keenest fellows 
I know; and he has business with men who know not only 
what’s doing in Downing Street, but what’s going to be 
done there. Now here ’s two things that are about to take 
place: one is the same as done, for it ’s all ready prepared, 
— the taking away the landlord’s right, and making the 
State determine what rent the tenant shall pay, and how 
long his tenure will be. The second won’t come for two 
sessions after, but it will be law all the same. There ’s to 
be no primogeniture class at all, no entail on land, but a 
subdivision, like in America and, I believe, in France.” 

“I don’t believe it, sir. These would amount to a revo- 
lution.” 

“Well, and why not? Ain’t we always going through a 
sort of mild revolution? What ’s parliamentary government 
but revolution, weakened, if you like, like watered grog; 
but the spirit is there all the same. Don’t fancy that 
because you can give it a hard name you can destroy it. 
But hear what Tom is coming to. ‘ Be early,’ says he; 
‘ take Time by the forelock; get rid of your entail and get 
rid of your land. Don’t wait till the Government does both 
for you, and have to accept whatever condition the law will 
cumber you with, but be before them! Get your sou to 
join you in docking the entail ; petition before the court for 
a sale, yourself or somebody for you ; and wash your hands 
clean of it all. It ’s bad property, in a very ticklish coun- 
try, ’ says Tom; and he dashes the words, — ‘ bad property 
in a very ticklish country; and if you take my i^dvice 


136 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


you ’ll get clear of both.’ You shall read it all yourself by 
and by ; I am ouly giving you the substance of it, and none 
of the reasons.” 

“ This is a question for very grave consideration, to say 
the least of it. It is a bold proposal. ” 

“So it is, and so says Tom himself; but he adds, 
‘There ’s no time to be lost; for once it gets about how 
Gladstone’s going to deal with land, and what Bright has 
in his head for eldest sons, you might as well whistle as try 
to dispose of that property.’ To be sure, he says,” added 
he, after a pause, — “he says, ‘ If you insist on holding on, 
— if you cling to the dirty acres because they were your 
father’s and your great-grandfather’s, and if you think that 
being Kearney of Kilgobbin is a sort of title, in the name 
of God stay where you are, but keep down your expenses. 
Give up some of your useless servants, reduce your saddle- 
horses,’ — my saddle-horses, Dick! ‘ Try ‘if you can live 
without fox-hunting.’ Fox-hunting! ‘Make your daugh- 
ter know that she needn’t dress like a duchess,’ — poor 
Kitty ’s very like a duchess; ‘ and, above all, persuade your 
lazy, idle, and very self-sufficient son to take to some 
respectable line of life to gain his living. I would n’t say 
that he mightn’t be an apothecary; but if he liked law 
better than physic, I might be able to do something for him 
in my own office. ’ ” 

“Have you done, sir?” said Dick, hastily, as his father 
wiped his spectacles, and seemed to prepare for another 
heat. 

“He goes on to say that he always requires one hundred 
and fifty guineas fee with a young man ; ‘ but we are old 
friends, Mathew Kearney,’ says he, ‘and we’ll make it 
pounds.’ ” 

“To fit me to be an attorney!” said Dick, articulating 
each word with a slow and almost savage determination. 

“Faith! it would have been w^ell for us if one of the 
family had been an attorney before now. "VYe ’d never have 
gone into that action about the mill race, nor had to pay 
those heavy damages for levelling Moore’s barn. A little 
law would have saved us from evicting those blackguards at 
Mullenalick, or kicking Mr. Hall’s bailiff before witnesses.” 


THE TWO “KEARNEYS.” 


137 


To arrest his father’s recollection of the various occasions 
on which his illegality had betrayed him into loss and dam- 
age, Dick blurted out, “I ’d rather break stones on the road 
than I ’d be an attorney.” 

“Well, you ’ll not have to go far for employment, for they 
are just laying down new metal this moment; and you 
need n’t lose time over it,” said Kearney, with a wave of 
his hand, to show that the audience was over and the con- 
ference ended. 

“There ’s just one favor I would ask, sir,” said Dick, 
with his hand on the lock. 

“You want a hammer, I suppose,” said his father, with 
a grin, — “ is n’t that it ? ” 

With something that, had it been uttered aloud, sounded 
very like a bitter malediction, Dick rushed from the room, 
slamming the door violently after him as he went. 

“That ’s the temper that helps a man to get on in life,” 
said the old man, as he turned once more to his accounts, 
and set to work to see where he had blundered in his 
figures. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


dick’s revert. 

/ 

When Dick Kearney left his father, he walked from the 
house, and not knowing, or much caring in what direction 
he went, turned into the garden. It was a wild, neglected 
sort of spot, more orchard than garden, with fruit-trees of 
great size, long past bearing, and close underwood in places 
that barred the passage. Here and there little patches 
of cultivation appeared; sometimes flowering plants, but 
oftener vegetables. One long alley, with tall hedges of 
box, had been preserved, which led to a little mound planted 
with laurels and arbutus, and known as “Laurel Hill; ” here 
a little rustic summer-house had once stood, and still, 
though now in ruins, showed where, in former days, people 
came to taste the fresh breeze above the tree-tops, and enjoy 
the wide range of a view that stretched to the Slieve-Bloom 
Mountains, nearly thirty miles away. 

Young Kearney reached this spot, and sat down to gaze 
upon a scene every detail of which was well known to him, 
but of which he was utterl}^ unconscious as he looked. “I 
am turned out to starve,” cried he, aloud, as though there 
Avas a sense of relief in thus proclaiming his sorrow to the 
winds. “I am told to go and work upon the roads, to live 
b}^ my daily labor. Treated like a gentleman until I am 
bound to that condition by every tie of feeling and kindred, 
and then bade to know myself as an outcast. I have not 
even Joe Atlee’s resource; I have not imbibed the instincts 
of the lower orders so as to be able to give them back to 
them in fiction or in song. I cannot either idealize rebellion, 
or make treason tuneful. 

“It is not yet a week since that same Atlee envied me my 
station as the son and heir to this place, and owned to me 
that there was that in the sense of name and linea2:e that 


DICK’S REVERY. 


139 


more than balanced personal success, and here I am now, a 
beggar! I can enlist, however, blessings on the noble 
career that ignores character and defies capacity. I don’t 
know that I ’ll bring much loyalty to her Majesty’s cause, 
but I ’ll lend her the aid of as broad shoulders and tough 
sinews as my neighbors.” And here his voice grew louder 
and harslier, and with a ring of defiance in it. “And no 
cutting off the entail, my Lord Kilgobbin! no escape from 
that cruel necessity of an heir! I may carry my musket in 
the ranks, but I ’ll not surrender my birthright! ” 

The thought that he had at length determined on the 
path he should follow aroused his courage and made his 
heart lighter; and then there was that in the manner he was 
vindicating his station and his claim that seemed to savor 
of heroism. He began to fancy his comrades regarding 
him with a certain deference, and treating him with a 
respect that recognized his condition. “I know the shame 
my father will feel when he sees to what he has driven me. 
What an offence to his love of rank and station to behold 
his son in the coarse uniform of a private! An only son, 
and heir, too! I can picture to myself his shock as he 
reads the letter in which I shall say good-bye, and then turn 
to tell my sister that her brother is a common soldier, and 
in this way lost to her forever! 

“And what is it all about? What terrible things have I 
done? What entanglements have I contracted? Where 
have I forged? Whose name have I stolen? whose daugh- 
ter seduced? What is laid to my charge, beyond that I 
have lived like a gentleman, and striven to eat and drink 
and dress like one? And I’ll wager my life that for one 
who will blame him there will be ten — no, not ten, fifty — 
to condemn me. I had a kind, trustful, affectionate father, 
restricting himself in scores of ways to give me my educa- 
tion among the highest class of my contemporaries. I was 
largely supplied with means, indulged in every way, and 
if I turned my steps towards home, welcomed with love and 
affection.” 

“And fearfully spoiled by all the petting he met with,” 
said a sofi voice, leaning over his shoulder, while a pair of 
very liquid gray eyes gazed into his own. 


140 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“What, Nina! — Mademoiselle Nina, I mean,” said he; 
“have you been long there? ” 

“Long enough to hear you make a very pitiful lamenta- 
tion over a condition that 1, in my ignorance, used to believe 
was only a little short of Paradise.” 

“You fancied that, did you?” 

“Yes, I did so fancy it.” 

“Might I be bold enough to ask from what circumstance, 
though? I entreat you to tell me what belongings of mine, 
what resources of luxury or pleasure, what incident of my 
daily life suggested this impression of yours?” 

“ Perhaps, as a matter of strict reasoning, I have little to 
show for my conviction ; but if you ask me why I thought 
as I did, it was simply from contrasting your condition with 
my own, and seeing that in everything where my lot has 
gloom and darkness, if not worse, yours, my ungrateful 
cousin, was all sunshine.” 

“Let us see a little of this sunshine, Cousin Nina. Sit 
down here beside me, and show me, I pray, some of those 
bright tints that I am longing to gaze on.” 

“There ’s not room for both of us on that bench.” 

“Ample room; w^e shall sit the closer.” 

“No, Cousin Dick; give me your arm and we ’ll take a 
stroll together.” 

“AYhich way shall it be? ” 

“You shall choose, cousin.” 

“If I have the choice, then. I’ll carry you off, Nina, for 
I ’m thinking of bidding good-bye to the old house and all 
within it.” 

“I don’t think I’ll consent that far,” said she, smiling. 
“I have had my experience of wLat it is to be without a 
home, or something very nearly that. I ’ll not willingly 
recall the sensation. But what has put such gloomy 
thoughts in your head? What, or rather who, is driving 
you to this?” 

“My father, Nina, my father! ” 

“This is past my comprehending.” 

“I ’ll make it very intelligible. My father, by way of 
curbing my extravagance, tells me I must give up all pre- 
tension to the life of a gentleman, and go into an office as 


DICK'S KEVERY. 


141 


a clerk. I refuse. He insists, and tells me, moreover, a 
number of little pleasant traits of my unfitness to do any- 
thing, so that I interrupt him by hinting that I might 
possibly break stones on the highway. He seizes the 
project with avidity, and offers to supply me with a hammer 
for my work. All fact, on my honor! I am neither adding 
to nor concealing. I am relating what occurred little more 
than an hour ago, and I have forgotten nothing of the inter- 
view. He, as I said, offers to give me a stone-hammer. 
And now I ask you, is it for me to accept this generous 
offer, or would it be better to wander over that bog yonder, 
and take my chance of a deep pool, or the bleak world where 
immersion and death are just as sure, though a little slower 
in coming ? ” 

“Have you told Kate of this? ” 

“No, I have not seen her. I don’t know if I had seen 
her that I should have told her. Kate has so grown to 
believe all my father’s caprices to be absolute wisdom that 
even his sudden gusts of passion seem to her like flashes of 
a bright intelligence, too quick and too brilliant for mere 
reason. She could give me no comfort nor counsel, either.” 

“I am not of your mind,” said she, slowly. “She has 
the great gift of what people so mistakingly call common- 
sense.” 

“And she ’d recommend me, perhaps, not to quarrel with 
my father, and to go and break the stones.” 

“Were you ever in love. Cousin Dick?” asked she, in 
a tone every accent of which betokened earnestness and 
even gravity. 

“Perhaps I might say never. I have spooned or flirted, 
or whatever the name of it might be ; but I was never 
seriously attached to one girl, and unable to think of an}^- 
thing but her. But what has your question to do with 

this?” 

“Evervthing. If vou really loved a girl, that is, if she 
filled every corner of }’Our heart, if she was first in every 
plan and project of your life, not alone her wishes and hei 
likings, but her very words and the sound of her voice, — if 
you saw her in everything that was beautiful, and heaid hei 
in every tone that delighted you, — if to be mo\ing in the 


142 


LORI) KILGOBBIN. 


air she breathed was ecstasy, and that heaven itself without 
her was cheerless ; if — ” 

“Oh, don’t go on, Nina. None of these ecstasies could 
ever be mine. I have no nature to be moved or moulded 
in this fashion. I might be very fond of a girl ; but she ’d 
never drive me mad if she left me for another.” 

“I hope she may, then, if it be with such false money 
you would buy her,” said she, fiercely. “Do you know,” 
added she, after a pause, “I was almost on the verge of 
saying, go and break the stones; the metier is not much 
beneath you, after all ! ” 

“This is scarcely civil. Mademoiselle; see what my 
candor has brought upon me! ” 

“Be as candid as you like upon the faults of your nature. 
Tell every wickedness that you have done or dreamed of, 
but don’t own to cold-heartedness. For that there is no 
sympathy! ” 

“Let us go back a bit, then,” said he, “and let us sup- 
pose that I did love in the same fervent and insane manner 
you spoke of, what and how would it help me here? ” 

“Of course it would. Of all the ingenuity that plotters 
talk of, of all the imagination that poets dream, there is 
nothing to compare with love. To gain a plodding subsist- 
ence a man will do much. To win the girl he loves, to 
make her his own, he will do everything; he will strive, 
and strain, and even starve to win her. Poverty will have 
nothing mean if confronted for her, hardship have no 
suffering if endured for her sake. Witli her before him all 
the world shows but one goal; without her life is a mere 
dreary task, and himself a hired laborer.” 

“I confess, after all this, that I don’t see how breaking 
stones would be more palatable to me because some pretty 
girl that I was fond of saw me hammering away at m}^ 
limestone! ” 

“If you could have loved as T would wish you to love, 
your career had never fallen to this. The heart that loved 
would have stimulated the head that thought. Don’t fancy 
that people are only better because they are in love; but 
they are greater, bolder, brighter, more daring in danger, 
and more ready in every emergency. So wonder-working 


DICK’S KEVEKY. 


143 


is the real passion that even in the base mockery of Love 
men have risen to genius. Look what it made Petrarch; 
and I might say Byron, too, tho’ he never loved worthy of 
the name.” 

“And how came you to know all this, cousin mine? I’m 
really curious to know that.” 

“I was reared in Italy, Cousin Dick, and I have made a 
deep study of nature through French novels.” 

Now there was a laughing devilry in her eye, as she said 
this, that terribly puzzled the young fellow; for just at the 
very moment her enthusiasm had begun to stir his breast, 
her merry mockery wafted it away as wdth a storm- 
wind. 

“I wish I knew if you were serious,” said he, gravely. 

“Just as serious as you were when you spoke of being 
ruined.” 

“I was so, I pledge my honor. The conversation I 
reported to you really took place ; and when you joined me, 
I was gravely deliberating with myself whether I should 
take a header into a deep pool or enlist as a soldier.” 

“Fie, fie! how ignoble all that is! You don’t know the 
hundreds of thousands of things one can do in life. Do 

c? 

you speak French or Italian?” 

“I can read them, but not freely; but how are they to help 
me? ” 

“You shall see; first of all, let me be your tutor. We 
shall take two hours, three if you like, every morning. 
Are you free now from all your college studies? ” 

“I can be after Wednesday next. I ought to go up for 
my term examination.” 

“Well, do so; but mind, don’t bring down Mr. Atlee 
with you.” 

“My chum is no favorite of yours? ” 

“That’s as it may be,” said she, haughtily. “I have 
only said let us not have the embarrassment, or, if }mu like 
it, the pleasure of his company. I ’ll give you a list of 
books to bring down, and my life be on it, but m ij course 
of study will surpass what you have been doing at Trinity. 
Is it agreed? ” 

“Give me till to-morrow to think of it, Nina.” 


144 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“That does not sound like a very warm acceptance; but 
be it so, — till to-morrow.” 

“Here are some of Kate’s dogs,” cried he, angrily. 
“Down, Fan, down! I say. I’ll leave you now before she 
joins us. Mind, not a word of what I told you.” 

And, without another word, he sprang over a low fence, 
and speedily disappeared in the copse beyond it. 

“Wasn’t that Dick I saw making his escape?” cried 
Kate, as she came up. 

“Yes, we were taking a walk together, and he left me 
very abruptly.” 

“I wish I had not spoiled a tete-a-tete,^^ said Kate, 
merrily. 

“It is no great mischief; we can always renew it.” 

“Dear Nina,” said the other, caressingly, as she drew 
her arm around her, — “dear, dear Nina, do not, do not, I 
beseech you.” 

“Don’t what, child? — you must not speak riddles.” 

“Don’t make that poor boy in love with you. You your- 
self told me you could save him from it if you liked.” 

“And so I shall, Kate, if you don’t dictate or order me. 
Leave me quite to myself and I shall be most merciful.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


MATHEW Kearney’s “study.” 

Had Mathew Kearney but read the second sheet of his cor- 
respondent’s letter, it is more than likely that Dick had not 
taken such a gloomy view of his condition. Mr. McKeown’s 
epistle continued in this fashion: “That ought to do for 
him, Mathew, or my name ain’t Tom McKeown. It is 
not that he is any worse or better than other young fel- 
lows of his own stamp, but he has the greatest scamp in 
Christendom for his daily associate. Atlee is deep in all 
the mischief that goes on in the national press. I believe 
he IS a head-centre of the Fenians, and I know he has a 
correspondence wdth the French socialists, and that Rights- 
of-labor-knot of vagabonds who meet at Geneva. Your boy 
is not too wise to keep himself out of these scrapes, and 
he IS just by name and station of consequence enough to 
make these fellows make up to and flatter him. Give him a 
sound fright then; and when he is thoroughl}" alarmed about 
his failure, send him abroad for a short tour, let him go 
study at Halle or Heidelberg, — anything, in short, that will 
take him away from Ireland, and break off his intimacy 
with this Atlee and his companions. While he is with you 
at Kilgobbin, don’t let him make acquaintance with those 
Radical fellows in the county towns. Keep him down, 
Mathew, keep him down ; and if you find that you cannot 
do this, make him believe that you ’ll be one day lords of 
Kilgobbin, and the more he has to lose the more reluctant 
he ’ll be to risk it. If he ’d take to farming, and marry 
some decent girl, even a little beneath him in life, it would 
save you all uneasiness; but he is just that thing now that 
brings all the misery on us in Ireland. He thinks he ’s a 

10 


146 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


gentleman because he can do nothing ; and to save himself 
from the disgrace of incapacity he ’d like to be a rebel.” 

If Mr. Tom McKeown’s reasonings were at times some- 
what abstruse and hard of comprehension to his friend 
Kearney, it was not that he did not bestow on them due 
thought and retlection; and over this private and strictly 
confidential page he had now meditated for hours. 

“Bad luck to me,” cried he at last, “ if I see what he ’s at. 
If I’m to tell the boy he is ruined to-day, and to-morrow to 
announce to him that he is a lord, — if I ’m to threaten him 
now with poverty, and the morning after I ’m to send him 
to Halle or Hell, or wherever it is, — I ’ll soon be out of my 
mind, myself, through bare confusion. As to having him 
‘ down,’ he ’s low enough; but so shall I be, too, if 1 keep 
him there. I ’m not used to seeing my house uncomfort- 
able, and I cannot bear it.” 

Such were some of his reflections over his agent’s advice; 
and it may be imagined that the Machiavellian Mr. McKeown 
had fallen upon a very inapt pupil. 

It must be owned that Mathew Kearney was somewhat 
out of temper with his son even before the arrival of this 
letter. While the “swells,” as he would persist in calling 
the two English visitors, .were there, Dick took no trouble 
about them, nor to all seeming made any impression on 
them. As Mathew said, “He let Joe Atlee make all the 
running, and, signs on it! Joe Atlee was taken off to town 
as Walpole’s companion, and Dick not so much as thought 
of. Joe, too, did the honors of the house as if it was his 
own, and talked to Lockwood about coming down for the 
partridge-shooting, as if he was the head of the family. 
The fellow was a bad lot, and McKeown was right so far, 

— the less Dick saw of him the better.” 

The trouble and distress these reflections, and others like 
them, cost him would more than have recompensed Dick, 
had he been hard-hearted enough to desire a vengeance. 
“For a quarter of an hour, or maybe twenty minutes,^’ said 
he, “ I can be as angry as any man in Europe, and, if it was 
required of me during that time to do anything desperate, 

— downright wicked, — I could be bound to do it; and 
what ’s more, I ’d stand to it afterwards if it cost me the 


147 


MATHEW KEARNEY’S “STUDY.” 

gallows. But as for keeping up the same mind, as for being 
able to say to myself my heart is as hard as ever, I ’m just 
as much bent on cruelty as 1 was yesterday, — that ’s clean 
beyond me; and the reason, God help me, is no great com- 
fort to me after all; for it ’s just this, — that when I do a 
hard thing, whether distraining a creature out of his bit of 
ground, selling a widow’s pig, or fining a fellow for shoot- 
ing a hare, 1 lose ni}" appetite and have no heart for my 
meals; and as sure as 1 go asleep, 1 dream of all the mis- 
fortunes in life happening to me, and my guardian angel 
sitting laughing all the while and saying to me, ‘ Didn’t you 
bring it on yourself, Mathew Kearney? could n’t you bear a 
little rub without trying to make a calamity of it? Must 
somebody be alwaj^s punished when an^Thing goes wrong in 
life? Make up your mind to have six troubles every day 
of your life, and see how jolly you ’ll be the day you can 
only count live, or maybe four.’ ” 

As Mr. Kearney sat brooding in this wise, Peter Gill 
made his entrance into the study with the formidable 
monthly lists and accounts, whose examination constituted 
a veritable doomsday to the unhappy master. 

“ Would n’t next Saturday do, Peter? ” asked Kearney, in 
a tone of almost entreaty. 

“I’m afther ye since Tuesday last, and I don’t think I ’ll 
be able to go on much longer.” 

Now, as Mr. Gill meant by this speech to imply that he 
was obliged to trust entirely to his memory for all the details 
which would have been committed to writing by others, and 
to a notched stick for the manifold dates of a vast variety 
of events, it was not really a very unfair request he had 
made for a peremptory hearing. 

“1 vow to the I.(Ord,” sighed out Kearney, “I believe I m 
the hardest worked man in the three kingdoms. 

‘'Maybe you are,” muttered Gill, though certainly the 
concurrence scarcely sounded hearty, while he meanwhile 
arranged the books. 

“Oh, I know w^ell enough what you mean. If a man 
does n’t w’ork wdth a spade or follow the plough, you won t 
believe that he works at all. He must drive, or dig, oi 
drain, or mow'. There ’s no labor but w'hat strains a man s 


148 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


back, and makes him weary about the loins ; but I ’ll tell 
you, Peter Gill, that it ’s here ” — and he touched his fore- 
head with his finger, — “it’s here is the real workshop. 
It’s thinking and contriving; setting this against that; 
doing one thing that another may happen, and guessing 
what will come if we do this and don’t do that; carrying 
everything in your brain, and, whether you are sitting over 
a glass with a friend, or taking a nap after dinner, think- 
ing away all the time! What would you call that, Peter 
Gill, — what would you call that? ” 

“Madness, begorra, or mighty near it! ” 

“No; it’s just work, — brain-work. As much above 
mere manual labor as the intellect, the faculty that raises us 
above the brutes, is above the — the — ” 

“Yes,” said Gill, opening the large volume, and vaguely 
passing his hand over a page. “It’s somewhere there 
about the Conacre ! ” 

“You ’re little better than a beast! ” said Kearney, 
angrily. 

“Maybe I am, and maybe I ’m not. Let us finish this, 
now that we ’re about it.” 

And so saying, he deposited his other books and papers 
on the table, and then drew from his breast-pocket a some- 
what thick roll of exceedingly dirty bank-notes, fastened 
with a leather thong. 

“I’m glad to see some money at last, Peter,” cried 
Kearney, as his eye caught sight of the notes. 

“Faix, then, it’s little good they’ll do ye,” muttered 
the other, gruttly. 

“AYhat d’ ye mean by that, sir? ” asked he, angrily. 

“Just what I said, my Lord, the devil a more nor less; 
and that the money you see here is no more vours nor it is 
mine! It belongs to the land it came from. Ay, ay, 
stamp away, and go red in the face; you must hear the 
truth, whether you like it or no. The place we ’re living in 
is going to rack and ruin out of sheer bad treatment. 
There ’s not a hedge on the estate; there isn’t a gate that 
could be called a gate; the holes the people live in isn’t 
good enough for badgers; there ’s no water for the mill at 
the cross-roads ; and the Loch meadows is drowned with 


149 


MATHEW KEARNEY^S “STUDY.” 

wet, — we ’re dragging for the hay, like sea- weed ! And 
you think you ’ve a right to these,” — and he actually shook 
the notes at him, — ‘Ao go and squander them on them 
‘ impedint ’ Phiglishmen that was laughing at you! Did n’t 
I hear them myself about the tablecloth that one said was 
the sail of a boat.” 

ill you hold your tongue?” cried Kearney, wild with 
passion. 

“I will not! I’ll die on the lloore but I’ll speak my 
mind.” 

This was not only a favorite phrase of Mr. Gill’s, but it 
was so far significant that it always indicated he was about 
to give notice to leave, — a menace on his part of no unfre- 
quent occurrence. 

“Ye ’s going, are ye? ” asked Kearney, jeeringly. 

“I just am; and I’m come to give up the books, and 
to get my receipts and my charac — ter.” 

“It won’t be hard to give the last, anyway,” said Kear- 
ney, with a grin. 

“So much the better. It will save your honor much 
writing, with all that you have to do.” 

“Do you want me to kick you out of the office, Peter 
Gill?” 

“No, my Lord, I’m going quiet and peaceable. I ’m only 
asking my rights.” 

“You ’re bidding hard to be kicked out, you are? ” 

“Am I to leave them here, or will your honor go over the 
books with me? ” 

“Leave the notes, sir, and go to the devil.” 

“I will, my Lord; and one comfort at least. I’ll have; 
it won’t be harder to put up with his temper.” 

Mr. Gill’s head barely escaped the heavy account-book 
which struck the door above him as he escaped from the 
room, and Mathew Kearney sat back in his chair and 
grasped the arms of it like one threatened with a fit. 

“Where ’s Miss Kitty, — where ’s my daughter? ” cried he 
aloud, as though there was some one within hearing. 
“Taking the dogs a walk, I ’ll be bound,” muttered he, “or 
gone to see somebody’s child with the measles, devil fear 
her! She has plenty on her hands to do anywhere but at 


150 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


home. The place might be going to rack and rnin for her 
if there was only a young colt to look at, or a new litter of 
pigs! And so you think to frighten me, Peter Gill! 
You ’ve been doing the same thing every Easter, and every 
harvest, these tive-and-twenty years ! 1 can only say I wish 

you had kept your threat long ago, and the ])roperty would n’t 

have as manv tumble-down cabins and ruined fences as it 

%/ 

has now, and my rent-roll, too, wouldn’t have been the 
worse. I don’t believe there ’s a man in Ireland more 
cruelly robbed than myself. There is n’t an estate in the 
county has not risen in value except my own! There ’s not 
a landed gentleman has n’t laid by money in the barony 
but myself, and if you Avere to believe the neAvspapers, I ’m 
the hardest landlord in the province of Leinster. Is that 
Mickey Doolan, there? Mickey!” cried he, opening the 
window, “did you see Miss Kearney anywhere about? ” 

“Yes, my Lord. I see her coming up the Bog road with 
Miss O’Shea.” 

“The worse luck mine,” muttered he, as he closed the 
window, and leaned his head on his hand. 


chaptp:r XIX. 


AN UNWELCOME VISIT. 

If Mathew Kearney had been put to the question, he could 
not have concealed the fact, that the human being he most 
feared and dreaded in life was his neighbor Miss Betty 
O’Shea. 

AYith two years of seniority over him. Miss Betty had 
bullied him as a child, snubbed him as a youth, and op- 
posed and sneered at him ever after ; and to such an 
extent did her influence over his character extend, accord- 
ing to his own belief, that there was not a single good 
trait of his nature she had not thwarted by ridicule, nor a 
single evil temptation to which he had yielded, that had 
not come out of sheer opposition to that lady’s dictation. 

Malevolent people, indeed, had said that IMathew Kearney 
had once had matrimonial designs on Miss Betty, or rather, 
on that snug place and nice property called “O’Shea’s 
Barn,” of which she was sole heiress ; but lie most stoutly 
declared this story to be groundless, and in a forcible 
manner asseverated that had he been Robinson Crusoe and 
Miss Betty the only inhabitant of tlie island with him, he 
would have lived and died in celibacy rather than have 
contracted dearer ties. 

Miss Betty, to give her the name by which she was best 
known, was no miracle of either tact or amiability, but she 
had certain qualities that could not be disparaged. She 
was a strict Catiiolic, charitable, in her own peculiar and 
imperious way, to the poor, very desirous to be strictly just 
and honest, and such a sure foe to everything that slie 
thought pretension or humbug of any kind — which meant 
anything that did not square with her own habits — that 


152 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


she was perfectly intolerable to all who did not accept her- 
self and her own inode of life as a model and an example. 

Thus, a stout-bodied copper urn on the tea-table, a very 
uncouth jaunting-car, driven by an old man, whose only 
livery was a cockade, some very muddy port as a dinner 
wine, and whiskey-punch afterwards on the brown mahog- 
any, were so many articles of belief with her, to dissent 
from any of which was a downright heresy. 

Thus, after Nina arrived at the castle, the appearance of 
napkins palpably affected her constitution ; with the advent 
of finger-glasses she ceased her visits, and bluntly declined 
all invitations to dinner. That coffee and some indescrib- 
able liberties w'ould follow, as postprandial excesses, she 
secretly imparted to Kate Kearney, in a note, which con- 
cluded with the assurance that when the day of these enor- 
mities arrived, O’Shea’s Barn would be open to her as a 
refuge and a sanctuary ; “ but not,” added she, “ with your 
cousin, for I’ll not let the hussy cross my doors.” 

For months now this strict quarantine had lasted, and 
except for the interchange of some brief and very uninterest- 
ing notes, all intimacy had ceased between the two houses 
— a circumstance, I am loath to own, which was most un- 
gallantly recorded every day after dinner by old Kearney, 
who drank ‘‘Miss Betty’s health, and long absence to her.” 
It w^as then with no small astonishment Kate w^as overtaken 
in the avenue by Miss Betty on her old chestnut mare 
Judy, a small bog-boy mounted on the croup behind, to 
act as groom ; for in this way Paddy Walshe was accus- 
tomed to travel, without the slightest consciousness that he 
was not in strict conformity with the ways of Rotten Row 
and the “ Bois.” 

That there was nothing “ stuck-up ” or pretentious about 
this mode of being accompanied by one’s groom — a prop- 
osition scarcely assailable — was Miss Betty’s declaration, 
delivered in a sort of challenge to the world. Indeed, 
certain ticklesome tendencies in .Judy, particularly when 
touched wdth the heel, seemed to offer the strongest protest 
against the practice ; for whenever pushed to any increase 
of speed or admonished in any way, the beast usually re- 
sponded by a hoist of the haunches, which invariably com- 


AN UNWELCOME VISIT. 


153 


pelled Paddy to clasp bis mistress round the waist for 
safety, — a situation which, however repugnant to maiden 
bashfulness, time, and perhaps necessity, had reconciled 
her to. At all events, poor Paddy’s terror would have been 
the amplest refutation of scandal, while the stern immobil- 
ity of Miss Betty during the embrace would have silenced 
even malevolence. 

On the present occasion a sharp canter of several miles 
had reduced Judy to a very quiet and decorous pace, so 
that Paddy and his mistress sat almost back to back, — a 
combination that only long habit enabled Kate to witness 
without laughing. 

“Are you alone up at the castle, dear?” asked Miss 
Betty, as she rode along at her side ; “or have you the house 
full of what the papers call ‘distinguished company?’ ” 

“We are quite alone, godmother. My brother is with 
us, but we have no strangers.” 

“I am glad of it. I’ve come over to ‘have it out’ with 
your father, and it ’s pleasant to know we shall be to 
ourselves.” 

Now, as this announcement of having “it out” conveyed 
to Kate’s mind nothing short of an open declaration of war, 
a day of reckoning on which Miss O’Shea would come pre- 
pared with a full indictment, and a resolution to prosecute 
to conviction, the poor girl shuddered at a prospect so cer- 
tain to end in calamity. 

“ Papa is very far from well, godmother,” said she, in a 
mild way. 

“ So they tell me in the town,” said the other, snappishly. 
“ His brother magistrates said that the day he came in, about 
that supposed attack — the memorable search for arms 

“Supposed attack! but, godmother, pray don’t imagine 
we had invented all that. I think you know me well enough 

and long enough to know — ” 

“To know that you would not have had a young scamp 
of a Castle aide-de-camp on a visit during your father’s 
absence, not to say anything about amusing your English 
visitor by shooting down, your own tenantry. 

“Will you listen to me for five minutes? ” 

“ No, not for three.” 


154 


LOKI) KILGOBBIN. 


“Two, then — one even — one minute, godmother, will 
convince 3^011 how you wrong me.” 

“ I won’t give you that. 1 didn’t come over about you 
nor your affairs. When the father makes a fool of himself, 
wh}” would n’t the daughter? The whole countiy is laughing 
at him. His Lordship indeed ! a ruined estate and a tenantry 
in rags ; and the onl}^ reined}", as Peter Gill tells me, raising 
the rents, — raising the rents wliere every one is a pauper.” 

“What would you have him do. Miss O’Shea?” said 
Kate, almost angrily. 

“ I ’ll tell you what I ’d have him do. I ’d have him rise 
of a morning before nine o’clock, and be out with his laborers 
at daybreak. 1 ’d have him reform a w"hole lazy household 
of blackguards, good for nothing but waste and wickedness. 
I ’d have him apprentice your brother to a decent trade or a 
light business. I ’d have him declare he ’d kick the first man 
that called him ‘ My Lord ; ’ and for yourself, well, it ’s no 
matter — ” 

“ Yes, but it is, godmother, a great matter to me at least. 
What about myself? ” 

“ Well, I don’t wish to speak of it, but it just dropped out 
of my lips by accident *, and perhaps, though not pleasant to 
talk about, it ’s as well it was said and done with. I meant 
to tell your father that it must be all over between you and 
my nephew, Gorman ; that I won’t have him back here on 
leave as 1 intended. I know it did n’t go far, dear. There 
w'as none of what they call love in the case. You would 
probably have liked one another well enough at last ; but I 
won’t have it, and it ’s better we came to the rioht under- 

O 

standing at once.” 

“Your curb-chain is loose, godmother,” said the girl; 
who now, pale as death and trembling all over, advanced to 
fasten the link. 

“ I declare to the Lord he’s asleep! ” said Miss Betty, as 
the wearied head of her page dropped heavily on her shoulder. 
“ Take the curb off, dear, or I may lose it. Put it in your 
pocket for me, Kate ; that is, if you wear a pocket.” 

“ Of course I do, godmother. I carry very stout keys in 
it, too. Look at these.” 

“Ay, ay. I liked all that, once on a time, well enough. 


AN UNWELCOME VISIT. 


155 


and used to think you ’d be a good thrifty wife for a poor 
man ; but with the Viscount your father, and the young 
Princess your first cousin, and the devil knows what of your 
fine brother, I believe the sooner we part good friends the 
better. Not but if you like my plan for you, I ’ll be just as 
ready as ever to aid you.” 

“ I have not heard the plan yet,” said Kate, faintly. 

“ Just a nunnery, then — no more nor less than that. The 
‘ Sacred Heart ’ at Namur, or the Sisters of Mercy here at 
home in Bagot Street, I believe, if you like better — eh? ” 
“It is soon to be able to make up one’s mind on such a 
point. I want a little time for this, godmother.” 

“ You would not want time if your heart were in a holy 
work, Kate Kearney. It’s little time you’d be asking if I 
said will you have Gorman O’Shea for a husband?” 

“There is such a thing as insult. Miss O’Shea, and no 
amount of long intimacy can license that.” 

“ I ask your pardon, godchild. I wish you could know 
how sorry I feel.” 

“ Say no more, godmother, say no more, I beseech you,” 
cried Kate ; and her tears now gushed forth, and relieved her 
almost bursting heart. “I’ll take this short path through 
the shrubbery, and be at the door before you,” cried she, 
rushing away ; while Miss Betty, with a sharp touch of the 
spur, provoked such a plunge as effectually awoke Paddy, 
and apprised him that his duties as groom were soon to be 
in request. 

While earnestly assuring him that some changes in his 
diet should be speedily adopted against somnolency. Miss 
Betty rode briskly on, and reached tlie hall-door. 

‘^I told you I should be first, godmother,” said the girl; 
and the pleasant ring of her voice showed she had regained 
her spirits, or at least such self-control as enabled her to 
suppress her sorrow. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A DOMESTIC DISCUSSION. 

It is a not infrequent distress in small households, especially 
when some miles from a market town, to make adequate 
preparation for an unexpected guest at dinner ; but even 
this is a very inferior dilliculty to that experienced by those 
who have to order the repast in conformity with certain 
rigid notions of a guest who will criticise the smallest devia- 
tion from the most humble standard, and actually rebuke 
the slightest pretension to delicacy of food or elegance of 
table equipage. 

No sooner, then, had Kate learned that Miss O’Shea was 
to remain for dinner, than she immediately set herself to 
think over all the possible reductions that might be made in 
the fare, and all the plainness and simplicity that could be 
imparted to the service of the meal. 

Napkins had not been the sole reform suggested by the 
Greek cousin. She had introduced flowers on the table, and 
so artfully had she decked out the board with fruit and orna- 
mental plants, that she had succeeded in effecting by artilice 
what would have been an egregious failure if more openly 
attempted, — the service of the dishes one by one to the 
guests without any being placed on the table. These, with 
finger-glasses, she had already achieved, nor had she in the 
recesses of her heart given up the hope of seeing the day 
that her uncle would rise from the table as she did, give her 
his arm to the drawing-room, and bow profoundly as he left 
her. Of the inestimable advantages, social, intellectual, and 
moral, of this system, she had indeed been cautious to hold 
forth ; for, like a great reformer, she was satisfied to leave 
her improvements to the slow test of time, educating her 


A DOMESTIC DISCUSSION. 


157 


public,” as a great authority has called it, while she bided 
the result in patience. 

Indeed, as poor Mathew Kearney was not to be indulged 
with the luxury of whiskey-punch during his dinner, it was 
not easy to reply to his question, “When am 1 to have my 
tumbler?” as though he evidently believed the aforesaid 
“tumbler” wms an institution that could not be abrogated 
or omitted altogether. 

Coffee in the drawing-room was only a half success so 
long as the gentlemen sat over their wine ; and as for the 
daily cigarette Nina smoked with it, Kate, in her simplicity, 
believed it was only done as a sort of protest at being 
deserted by those unnatural protectors who preferred poteen 
to ladies. 

It was therefore in no small perturbation of mind that 
Kate rushed to her cousin’s room with the awful tidings that 
Miss Betty had arrived and intended to remain for dinner. 

“ Do you mean that odious woman with the boy and band- 
box behind her on horseback? ” asked Nina, superciliously. 

“ Yes, she always travels in that fashion ; she is odd and 
eccentric in scores of things, but a fine-hearted, honest 
woman, generous to the poor, and true to her friends.” 

“ I don’t care for her moral qualities, but I do bargain for 
a little outward decency, and some respect for the world’s 
opinion.” 

“ You w'ill like her, Nina, when you know her.” 

“I shall profit by the warning. I’ll take care not to 
know her.” 

“ She, is one of the oldest, I believe the oldest, friend our 
family has in the world.” 

“What a sad confession, child; but I have always 
deplored longevity.” 

“ Don’t be supercilious or sarcastic, Nina, but help me 
with your own good sense and wise advice. She has not 
come over in the best of humors. She has, or fancies she 
has, some difference to settle with papa. They seldom meet 
without a quarrel, and I fear this occasion is to be no excep- 
tion ; so do aid me to get things over pleasantly, if it be 
possible.” 

‘ ‘ She snubbed me the only time I met her. I tried to 


158 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


help her off with her bonnet, and, unfortunately, I dis- 
placed, if I did not actually remove, her wig, and slie 
muttered something ‘ about a rope-dancer not being a 
dexterous lady’s-maid.’ ” 

“ Oh, Nina, surely yon do not mean — ” 

“ Not that I was exactly a rope-dancer, Kate, but I had 
on a Greek jacket that morning of blue velvet and gold, 
and a white skirt, and perhaps these had some memories of 
the circus for the old lady.” 

“ You are only jesting now, Nina.” 

“ Don’t vou know me well enough to know that I never 
jest when 1 think, or even suspect, I am injured? ” 

“ Injured ! ” 

“It’s not the word I wanted, but it will do; I used it in 
its French sense.” 

“ You bear no malice, I ’m sure? ” said the other, caress- 
ingly. 

“No! ” replied she, with a shrug that seemed to depre- 
cate even having a thought about her. 

“ She will stay for dinner, and we must, as far as possible, 
receive her in the way she has been used to here, — a very 
homely dinner, served as she has always seen it, — no fruit 
or flowers on the table, no claret-cup, no finger-glasses.” 

“I hope no tablecloth; couldn’t we have a tray on a 
corner table, and every one help himself as he strolled about 
the room ? ” 

“ Dear Nina, be reasonable just for this once.” 

“ I ’ll come down just as I am, or, better still, I ’ll take 
down my hair and cram it into a net ; I ’d oblige her with 
dirty hands, if I only knew how to do it.” 

“ I see you only say these things in jest; you really do 
mean to help me through this difficult}^” 

“ But why a difficulty ? what reason can you offer for all 
this absurd submission to the whims of a verv tiresome old 

K/ 

woman? Is she very rich, and do you expect an heritage? ” 
“ No, no; nothing of the kind.” 

“ Does she load you with valuable presents? Is she ever 
ready to commemorate birthdays and family festivals? ” 
“No.” 

“ Has she any especial quality or gift beyond riding double 


A DOMESTIC DISCUSSION. 


159 


and a bad temper? Oh, I was forgetting ; she is the aunt of 
her nephew, is n’t she ? — the dashing lancer that was to 
spend his summer over here? ” 

“ You were indeed forgetting when you said this,” said 
Kate, proudly ; and her face grew scarlet as she spoke. 

“ Tell me that you like him or that he likes you ; tell me 
that there is something, anything, between you, child, and 
I ’ll be discreet and mannerly, too ; and more, I ’ll behave 
to the old lady with every regard to one who holds such 
dear interests in her keeping. But don’t bandage my eyes, 
and tell me at the same time to look out and see.” 

“I have no confidences to make you,” said Kate, coldly. 
“I came here to ask a favor, — a veiy small favor, after 
all, — and you might liave accorded it, without question or 
ridicule.” 

“But wTiich you never need have asked, Kate,” said the 
other, gravely. “You are the mistress here; I am but a 
very humble guest. Your orders are obeyed, as they ought 
to be ; my suggestions may be adopted now and then, — 
partly in caprice, part compliment, — but I know they have 
no permanence, no more take root here than — than myself.” 
“Do not say that, my dearest Nina,” said Kate, as she 
threw herself on her neck, and kissed her affectionately 
again and again. “ You are one of us, and we are all proud 
of it. Come along with me, now, and tell me all that you 
advise. You know what 1 wish, and you will forgive me 
even in my stupidit 3 ^” 

“ Where ’s your brother? ” asked Nina, hastily. 

“ Gone out with his gun. He ’ll not be back till he is 
certain IVIiss Betty has taken her departure. 

“ Why did he not offer to take me with him? ” 

“ Over the bog, do you mean? ” 

“Anywhere; I’d not cavil about the road. Don’t you 
know that I have days when ‘ don’t care ’ masters me, — 
when I ’d do anything, go anywhere — ” 

“Marry any one?” said the other, laughing. 

“ Yes; marry any one, as irresponsibly as if I was deal- 
ing with the destiny of some other that did not legaid me. 
On these days I do not belong to myself, and this is one of 
them.” 


160 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I know nothing of such humors, Nina ; nor do I believe 
it a healthy mind that has them.” 

“ I did not boast of my mind’s health, nor tell you to trust 
to it. Come, let us go down to the dinner-room, and talk 
that pleasant leg-of-mutton talk you know you are fond 
of.” 

“And best fitted for, say that,” said Kate, laughing 
merrily. 

The other did not seem to have heard her words, for she 
moved slowly away, calling on Kate to follow her. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY. 

It is sad to have to record that all Kate’s persuasions with 
her cousin, all her own earnest attempts at conciliation, and 
her ably planned schemes to escape a difficulty, were only so 
much labor lost. A stern message from her father com- 
manded her to make no change either in the house or the 
service of the dinner, — an interference with domestic cares 
so novel on his part as to show that he had prepared himself 
for hostilities, and was resolved to meet his enemy boldly. 

“It’s no use, all I have been telling you, Nina,” said 
Kate, as she re-entered her room, later in the day. “Papa 
orders me to have everything as usual, and won’t even let 
me give Miss Betty an early dinner, though he knows she 
has nine miles of a ride to reach home.” 

“That explains somewhat a message he has sent myself,” 
replied Nina, “to wear my very prettiest toilette and my 
Greek cap, which he admired so much the other day.” 

“I am almost glad that my wardrobe has nothing attrac- 
tive,” said Kate, half sadly. “I certainly shall never be 
rebuked for my becomingness.” 

“And do you mean to say that the old woman would be 
rude enough to extend her comments to me?” 

“I have known her do things quite as hardy, though I 
hope on the present occasion the other novelties may shelter 
you.” 

“Why isn’t your brother here? I should insist on his 
comins: down in discreet black, with a white tie and that 
look of imposing solemnity young Englishmen assume for 
dinner.” 

“Dick guessed what was coming, and would not encoun- 
ter it.” 


11 


162 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ And yet you tell me you submit to all this for no earthly 
reason. She can leave you no legacy, contribute in no way 
to your benefit. She has neither family, fortune, nor con- 
nections ; and, except her atrocious manners and her in- 
domitable temper, there is not a trait of her that claims to 
be recorded.” 

“Oh, yes; she rides capitally to hounds, and hunts her 
own harriers to perfection.” 

“I am glad she has one quality that deserves your 
favor.” 

“ She has others, too, which I like better than what they 
call accomplishments. She is very kind to the poor, never 
deterred by any sickness from visiting them, and has the 
same stout-hearted courage for every casualty in life.” 

“ A commendable gift for a Squaw, but what does a 
Gentlewoman want with this same courage ? ” 

“ Look out of the window, Nina, and see where you are 
living ! Throw your eyes over that great expanse of dark 
bog, vast as one of the great campagnas you have often 
described to us, and bethink you how' mere loneliness — 
desolation — needs a stout heart to bear it ; how the simple 
fact that for the long hours of a summer’s day, or the longer 
hours of a winter’s night, a lone woman has to watch and 
think of all the possible casualties lives of hardship and 
misery may impel men to. Do you imagine that she does 
not mark the growing discontent of the people? see their 
careworn looks daslied with a sullen determination, and 
hear in their voices the rising of a hoarse defiance that was 
never heard before? Does she not well know that every 
kindness she has bestowed, every merciful act slie has minis- 
tered, would weigh for nothing in the Ixalance on the day 
that she will be arraigned as a landowner, — the receiver of 
the poor man’s rent ! And will you tell me after this she 
can dispense with courage ? ” 

“ Bel paese davvero ! ” muttered the other. 

“So it is,” eried Kate; “with all its faults I’d not ex- 
change it for the brightest land that ever glittered in a 
southern sun. But why should I tell you how jarred and 
disconcerted we are by laws that have no reference to our 
ways, — eonferring rights where we were once contented with 


A S:\IxVLL DINNER-rARTY. 


163 

trustfulness, and teaching men to do everything by contract, 
and nothing by affection, nothing by good-will.” 

“No, no, tell me none of all these; but tell me shall I 
come down in my Suliote jacket of yellow cloth, for I know 
it becomes me? ” 

“And if we women had not courage,” went on Kate, not 
heeding the question, “ what w^ould our men do? Should 
we see them lead lives of bolder daring than the stoutest 
W’anderer in Africa?” 

“And my jacket and my Theban belt?” 

“ Wear them all. Be as beautiful as you like, but don’t 
be late for dinner.” And Kate hurried away before the 
other could speak. 

When Miss O’Shea, arrayed in a scarlet poplin and a 
yellow gauze turban, — the month being August, — arrived 
in the drawing-room before dinner, she found no one tliere, 

• — a circumstance that chagrined her so far that she had 
hurried her toilette and torn one of her gloves in her haste. 
“ When they say six for the dinner-hour, they might surel}^ 
be in the drawing-room by that hour,” was Miss Betty’s 
reflection, as she turned over some of the magazines and 
circulating-library books wdiich since Nina’s arrival had 
found their w*ay to Kilgobbin. The contemptuous manner 
in which she treated Blackw^ood and Macmillan, and the 
indignant dash with w^hich she flung Trollo|x?’s last novel 
down, showed that she had not been yet corrupted by the 
light reading of the age. An unopened country news- 
paper, addressed to the Viscount Kilgobbin, had however 
absorbed all her attention, and she was more than lialf dis- 
posed to possess herself of the envelope when Mr. Kearney 
entered. 

Ilis bright blue coat and white waistcoat, a profusion of 
shirt-frill, and a voluminous cravat proclaimed dinner dress, 
and a certain pomposity of manner showed how an unusual 
costume had imposed on himself, and suggested an impor- 
tant event. 

“I hope I see Miss O’Shea in good health?” said lie, 
advancing. 

“How are you, Mathew?” replied she, dryly. “When 
I heard that big bell thundering away, I was so afraid to 


164 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


be late that I came down with one bracelet, and I have 
torn my glove too.” 

“ It was only the first bell, — the dressing-bell,” he said. 

“ Humph! That’s something new since 1 was here last,” 
said she, tartly. 

‘‘ You remind me of how long it is since you dined with 
us. Miss O’Shea.” 

“ Well, indeed, Mathew, I meant to be longer, if I must 
tell the truth. I saw enough the last day I lunched here to 
show me Kilgobbin was not wTat it used to be. You were 
all of you what my poor father — who was always think- 
ing of the dogs — used to call ‘on your hind legs,’ walking 
about very stately and very miserable. There were three 
or four covered dishes on the table that nobody tasted ; 
and an old man in red breeches ran about in half distrac- 
tion, and said, ‘Sherry, my Lord, or Madeira.’ Many’s 
the time I laughed over it since.” And, as though to vouch 
for the truth of the mirthfulness, she lay back in her chair, 
and shook with hearty laughter. 

Before Kearney could reply — for something like a pass- 
ing apoplexy had arrested his words — the girls entered, 
and made their salutations. 

“ If I had the honor of knowing you longer. Miss Costi- 
gan,” said ^liss O’Shea — for it was thus she translated 
the name Kostalergi — “I’d ask you why you couldn’t 
dress like your cousin Kate. It may be all very well in 
the house, and it ’s safe enough here, there ’s no denying 
it; but my name ’s not Betty if you ’d walk down Kilbeggin 
without a crowd yelling after you and calling names too, 
that a respectable young woman wouldn't bargain for: eh, 
Mathew, is that true?” 

“There’s the dinner-bell now,” said Mathew; “may I 
offer mv arm?” 

“ It ’s thin enough that arm is getting, Mathew Kearney,” 
said she, as he w\alked along at her side. “Not but it’s 
time, too. You were born in the September of 1809, 
though your mother used to deny it ; and you ’re now a 
year older than your father was when he died.” 

“Will you take this place?” said Kearney, placing her 
chair for her. “We’re a small party to-day. I see Dick 
does not dine with us.” 




A SMALL DINNER-PARTY. 


165 


“Maybe I bunted him away. The young gentlemen of 
the present day are frank enough to say what they think 
of old maids. That ’s very elegant, and I ’m sure it ’s 
refined,” said she, pointing to the mass of fruit and flow- 
ers so tastefully arranged before her. “But I was born in 
a time when people liked to see what they were going 
to eat, Mathew Kearney, and as I don’t intend to break 
my fast on a stock-gillyflower, or make a repast of raisins, 
I prefer the old way. Fill up my glass whenever it’s 
empty,” said she to the servant, “ and don’t bother me with 
the name of it. As long as I know the King’s County, 
and that ’s more than fifty years, we ’ve been calling Cape 
Madeira Sherry ! ” 

“ If we know what we are drinking. Miss O’Shea, I don’t 
suppose it matters much.” 

“ Nothing at all, Mathew. Calling you the Viscount 
Kilgobbin, as I read awhile ago, won’t confuse me about 
an old neighbor.” 

“AVon’t you try a cutlet, godmother?” asked Kate, 
hurriedly. 

“ Indeed, I will, my dear. I don’t know why I was send- 
ing the man away. I never saw this way of dining before, 
except at the poorhouse, where each poor creature has his 
plateful given him, and pockets what he can’t eat.” And 
here she laughed long and heartily at the conceit. 

Kearney’s good-humor relished the absurdity, and he 
joined in the laugh, while Nina stared at the old woman as 
an object of dread and terror. 

“And that boy that would n’t dine with us. How is he 
turning out, Mathew? They tell me he s a bit of a 
scamp.” 

“He’s no such thing, godmother. Dick is as good a 
fellow and as right-minded as ever lived, and j'ou yourself 
would be the first to say it, if 3^011 saw him,” cried Kate, 
angril}^ 

“ So would the young lady j^onder, if I might judge from 
her blushes,” said Miss Betty, looking at Nina. “Not 
indeed but it ’s only now I ’m remembering that you 're not a 
boy. That little red cap and that thing you wear round 
your throat deceived me.” 


166 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“It is not the lot of every one to be so fortunate in a 
head-dress as Miss O’Shea,” said Nina, very calmly. 

“If it’s my wig you are envying me, my dear,” replied 
she, quietly, “there’s nothing easier than to have the own 
brother of it. It was made by Crimp, of Nassau Street, and 
box and all cost four pound twelve.” 

“ Upon my life. Miss Betty,” broke in Kearney, “ you are 
tempting me to an extravagance.” And he passed his hand 
over his sparsely covered head as he spoke. 

“And I would not, if I was you, Mathew Kearney,” said 
she, resolutely. “ The}^ tell me that in that House of Lords 
you are going to, more than half of them are bald.” 
There was no possible doubt that she meant by this speech 
to deliver a challenge; and Kate’s look, at once imploring 
and sorrowful, appealed to her for mercJ^ 

“No, thank you,” said Miss Betty, to the servant who 
presented a dish, “ though indeed, maybe, I’m wrong, for I 
don’t know what’s coming.” 

“ This is the menu^'^’ said Nina, handing a card to her. 

“ The bill of fare, godmother,” said Kate, hastily. 

“AYell, indeed, it’s a kindness to tell me, and if there 
is any more novelties to follow, perhaps you’ll be kind 
enough to inform me, for I never dined in the Greek fashion 
before.” 

“The Russian, I believe, madam, not the Greek,” said 
Nina. 

“With all my heart, my dear. It’s about the same, for 
whatever may happen to Mathew Kearney or myself, I don’t 
suspect either of us will go to live at Moscow.” 

“You’ll not refuse a glass of port with your cheese?” 
said Kearney. 

“Indeed I will, then, if there’s any beer in the house, 
though perhaps it’s too vulgar a liquor to ask for.” 

While the beer was being brought, a solemn silence ensued, 
and a less comfortable party could not easily be imagined. 

AYhen the interval had been so far prolonged that Kearney 
himself saw the necessity to do something, he placed his 
napkin on the table, leaned forward with a half motion of 
rising, and, addressing Miss Betty, said, “ Shall we adjourn 
to the drawing-room and take our coffee ? ” 


A S:\IALL DINNER-PARTY. 


1G7 


“ 1 ’d rather stay where I am, Mathew Kearney, and have 
that glass of port you offered me awhile ago, for the beer 
was Hat. Not that I ’ll detain the young people, nor keep 
yourself away from them very long.” 

Mheii the two girls withdrew, Nina’s look of insolent 
triumph at Kate betrayed the tone she was soon to take in 
treating of the old lady’s good manners. 

“You had a very sorry dinner. Miss Betty, but I can 
promise you an honest glass of Avine,” said Kearney, tilling 
her glass. 

“It’s very nice,” said she, sipping it, “though, maybe, 
like myself, it’s just a trifle too old.” 

“A good fault, Miss Betty, a good fault.” 

“ For the wine, perhaps,” said she, dryly, “ but maybe it 
would taste better if 1 had not bought it so dearly.” 

“ 1 don’t think I understand you.” 

“I Avas about to say that I have forfeited that young 
lady’s esteem by the Avay I obtained it. She ’ll never forgive 
me, instead of retiring for my coffee, sitting here like a man 
— and a man of that old hard-drinking school, Mathew, that 
has brought all the ruin on Ireland.” 

“ Here ’s to their memory, any way,” said Kearney, drink- 
ing off his glass. 

“ I ’ll drink no toasts nor sentiments, Mathew Kearney, 
and tliere ’s no artifice or roguery aauII make me forget I ’m a 
woman and an O’Shea.” 

“ Faix, you’ll not catch me forgetting either,” said 
Mathew, with a droll tAvinkle of his eye, Avhicli it was just 
as fortunate escaped her notice. 

“ I doubted for a long time, Mathew Kearnev, AAfliether I ’d 
come oA'er mj^self, or whetlier I ’d Avrite you a letter ; not 
that I ’m good at writing, but somehow one can put their 
ideas more clear, and say things in a Avay that will fix them 
more in tlie mind ; but at last I determined I ’d come, though 
it ’s more than likely it ’s the last time Kilgobbin Avill see me 
here.” 

“ I sincerely trust you are mistaken, so far.” 

“Well, iMathew, I’m not often mistaken! The woman 
that has managed an estate for more than forty years, been 
her own land-steward and her own law-agent, does n’t make 


168 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


a great many blunders ; and, as I said before, if Mathew has 
no friend to tell him the truth among the men of his ac- 
quaintance, it ’s well that there is a woman to the fore, w!io 
has courage and good sense to go up and do it.’’ 

She looked fixedly at him, as though expecting some con- 
currence in the remark, if not some intimation to proceed ; 
but neither came, and she continued. 

“ I suppose you don’t read the Dublin newspapers? ” said 
she, civilly. 

I do, and every day the post brings them.” 

“ You see, therefore, without my telling you, what the 
world is saying about you. You see how they treat ‘the 
search for arms,’ as they head it, and ‘ the maid of Sara- 
gossa ’ ! Oh, Mathew Kearney ! Mathew Kearney ! whatever 
happened the old stock of the land, they never made them- 
selves ridiculous.” 

“ Have you done. Miss Betty?” asked he, with assumed 
calm. 

“Done! Why, it’s only beginning I am,” cried she. 
“Not but I ’d bear a deal of blackguarding from the press, 
as the old woman said when the soldier threatened to run 
his baj^onet through her: ‘ Devil thank }’Ou, it’s only your 
trade.’ But when we come to see the head of an old family 
making ducks and drakes of his family property, threatening 
the old tenants that have been on the land as long as his 
own people, raising the rent here, evicting there, distressing 
the people’s minds when they ’ve just as much as the}" can 
to bear up with, — then it ’s time for an old friend and 
neighbor to give a timely warning, and cry, ‘ Stop.’ 

“Have you done. Miss Betty? ” And now his voice was 
more stern than before. 

“ I have not, nor near done, ^lathew Kearney. I’ve said 
nothing of the way you ’re bringing up your family — that 
son, in particular — to make him think himself a young man 
of fortune, when you know, in your heart, you ’ll leave him 
little more than the mortgages on the estate. I have not 
told you that it ’s one of the jokes of the capital to call him 
the Honorable Dick Kearney, and to ask him after his 
father the Viscount.” 

“You haven’t done yet. Miss O’Shea?” said he, now 
with a thickened voice. 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY. 


169 


“No, uot yet,” replied she, calmly, “not yet; for I’d 
like to remind you of the way you ’re behaving to the best 
of the whole of you, — the only one, indeed, that’s worth 
much in the family, — your daughter Kate.” 

“ Well, what have I done to wrong lier?^’ said he, carried 
beyond his prudence by so astounding a charge. 

“The very worst you could do, Mathew Kearney; the 
only mischief it was in }"Our power, maybe. Look at the 
companion you have given her ! Look at the respectable 
young lady you ’ve brought home to live with your decent 
child ! ” 

“ You ’ll not stop? ” cried he, almost choking with passion. 

“ Not till I’ve told you why I came here, Mathew Kear- 
ney ; for I ’d beg you to understand it was no interest about 
yourself or your doings brought me. I came to tell you 
that I mean to be free about an old contract we once made, — 
that I revoke it all. I was fool enouo;h to believe that an 
alliance between our families would have made me entirely 
happy, and my nephew Gorman O’Shea was brought up to 
think the same. I have lived to know better, Mathew Kear- 
ney ; I have lived to see that we don’t suit each other at all, 
and I have come here to declare to you formally that it ’s all 
off. No nephew of mine shall come here for a wife. The 
heir to Shea’s Barn sha’ n’t bring the mistress of it out of 
Kilgobbin Castle.” 

“ Trust me for that, old lady ! ” cried he, forgetting all his 
good manners in his violent passion. 

“You’ll be all the freer to catch a young aide-de-camp 
from the Castle,” said she, sneeringly ; “or maybe, indeed, 
a young Lord, — a rank equal to your own.” 

“Haven’t you said enough?” screamed he, wild with 
rage. 

“ No, nor half, or you would n’t be standing there, wring- 
ing yonr hands with passion and your hair bristling like a 
porcupine. You ’d be at my feet, Mathew Kearney, — ay, 
at my feet.” 

“ So I would. Miss Betty,” chimed he in, with a malicious 
grin, “if I was only sure you’d be as cruel as the last 
time I knelt there. Oh dear ! oh dear ! and to think that I 
once wanted to marr}" that woman ! ” 


170 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ That you did ! You ’d have put your hand in the fire to 
win her.” 

‘‘ By my conscience, I ’d have put myself altogether there, 
if I had won her.” 

“ You understand now, sir,” said she, haughtily, “ that 
there’s no more between us.” 

‘‘ Thank God for the same ! ” ejaculated he, fervently. 

‘‘ And that no nephew of mine comes courting a daughter 
of yours? ” 

For his own sake, he ’d better not.” 

“It’s for his own sake I intend it, Mathew Kearney. 
It’s of himself I’m thinking. And now, thanking you 
for the pleasant evening I ’ve passed and your charming 
society, I ’ll take my leave.” 

“ I hope you’ll not rob us of your company till you take 
a dish of tea,” said he, with well-feigned politeness. 

“ It ’s hard to tear one’s self away, Mr. Kearney ; but it ’s 
late already.” 

“ Could n’t we induce 3^011 to stop the night. Miss Betty? ” 
asked he, in a tone of insinuation. “ Well, at least you’ll 
let me ring to order your horse? ” 

“ You may do that if it amuses jmu, Mathew Kearney ; but 
meanwhile I ’ll just do what I ’ve alwa^^s done in the same 
place, — I ’ll just go look for my own beast and see her 
saddled myself ; and as Peter Gill is leaving you to- 
morrow, I’ll take him back with me to-night.” 

“ Is he going to you? ” cried he, passionately". 

“He’s going to Mr. Kearney", wdth your leave, or 
without it, I don’t know which I like best.” And with this 
she swept out of the room, while Kearney closed his eyes 
and lay back in his chair, stunned and almost stupefied. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 

Dick Kearney walked the bog from early morning till dark 
without firing a shot. The snipe rose almost at his feet, and, 
wheeling in circles through the air, dipped again into some 
dark cre\dce of the waste, unnoticed him ! One thought 
only possessed, and never left him, as he went. He had 
overheard Nina’s words to his sister, as he made his escape 
over the fence, and learned how she promised to “spare 
him ; ” and that, if not worried about him, or asked to pledge 
herself, she should be “ merciful,” and not entangle the boy 
in a hopeless passion. 

He would have liked to have scoffed at the insolence 
of this speech, and treated it as a trait of overweening 
vanity ; he would have gladly accepted her pity as a sort 
of challenge, and said, “Be it so; let us see who will 
come safest out of this encounter,” and yet he felt in his 
heart he could not. 

First of all, her beauty had really dazzled him, and 
the thousand graces of a manner of which he had knowm 
nothing captivated and almost bewildered him. He could 
not reply to her in the same tone he used to any other. 
If he fetched her a book or a chair, he gave it with a 
sort of deference that actually reacted on himself, and 
made him more gentle and more courteous for the time. 
“ What would this influence end in making me?”wms his 
question to himself. “ Should I gain in sentiment or 
feeling? Should I have higher and nobler aims? Should 
I be anything of that she herself described so glowingly, 
or should I only sink to a weak desire to be her slave, and 
ask for nothing better than some slight recognition of 
my devotion? I take it, that she would say the choice 


172 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


lay with her^ and that I should be the one or the other 
as she willed it, and though I would give much to believe 
her wrong, my heart tells me that I cannot. X came do^n 
here resolved to resist any influence she might attempt to 
have over me. IXer likeness showed me how beautiful she 
was, but it could not tell me the dangerous fascination of hei 
low liquid voice, her half-playful, half-melancholy smile, and 
that bewitching walk, with all its stately grace, so that e\eiy 
fold as she moves sends its own thrill of ecstasy. And now 
that I know all these, see and feel them, I am told that to 
me they can bring no hope ! That I am too poor, too igno- 
ble, too undistinguished, to raise my eyes to such attraction. 
I am nothing, and must live and die nothing. 

“ She is candid enough, at all events. There is no rhap- 
sody about her when she talks of poverty. She chronicles 
every stage of the misery, as though she had felt them all ; 
and how unlike it she looks ! There is an almost insolent 
well-being about her that puzzles me. She will not heed 
this, or suffer that, because it looks mean. Is this the subtle 
worship she offers Wealth, and is it thus she offers up her 
prayer to Fortune? 

“But why should she assume I must be her slave? ” cried 
he aloud, in a sort of defiance. “I have shown her no such 
preference, nor made any advances that would show I want 
to win hei\ favor. Without denying that she is beautiful, 
is it so certain it is the kind of beauty I admire? She has 
scores of fascinations; I do not deny it. But should I sa} 
that I trust her? And if I should trust her and’ love her 
too, where must it all end in? I do not believe in her 
theory that love will transform a fellow of my mould into a 
hero; not to say that I have my own doubt if she herself 
believes it. I wonder if Kate reads her more clearly? 
Girls so often understand each other by traits we have no 
clew to; and it was Ivate who asked her, almost in tone of 
entreaty, ‘ to spare me,’ to save me from a hopeless passion, 
just as though I were some peasant-boy who had set his 
affection on a princess. Is that the wa}q then, the world 
would read our respective conditions? The son of a ruined 
house or the guest of a beggared family leaves little to 
choose between ! Kate — the world — would call my lot the 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


173 


better of the two. The man’s chance is not irretrievable; 
at least, such is the theory. Those half-dozen fellows, who 
in a century or so contrive to work their way up to some- 
thing, make a sort of precedent, and tell the others what 
they might be if they but knew how. 

‘"I ’m not vain enough to suppose I am one of these, and 
it is quite plain that she does not think me so.” He pon- 
dered long over this thought, and then suddenly cried aloud, 
“Is it possible she may read Joe Atlee in this fashion? is 
that the stuff out of whiqh she hopes to make a hero?” 
There was more bitterness in this thought than he had first 
imagined, and there was that of jealousy in it, too, that 
pained him deeply. 

Had she preferred either of the two Englishmen to him- 
self, he could have understood and, in a measure, accepted 
it. They were, as he called them, “swells.” They might 
become, he knew not what. The career of the Saxon in 
fortune was a thing incommensurable by Irish ideas; but Joe 
w'as like himself, or in reality less than himself, in worldly 
advantages. 

This pang of jealousy was very bitter; but still it served 
to stimulate him and rouse him from a depression that was 
gaining fast upon him. It is true he remembered she had 
spoken slightingly of Joe Atlee; called him noisy, preten- 
tious, even vulgar; snubbed him openly on more than one 
occasion, and seemed to like to turn the laugh against him; 
but with all that she had sung duets with him, corrected 
some Italian verses he wrote, and actually made a little 
sketch in his note-book for him as a souvenir. A souvenir! 
and of what? Not of the ridicule she had turned upon him! 
not the jest she had made upon his boastfulness. Now, 
which of these two did this argue; was this levity, or was it 
falsehood? Was she so little mindful of honesty that she 
would show these sis:ns of favor to one she held most 
cheaply, or was it that her distaste to this man was mere 
pretence, and only assumed to deceive others? 

After all, Joe Atlee was a nobody; flattery might call him 
an adventurer, but he was not even so much. Amongst the 
men of the dangerous party he mixed with, he was careful 
never to compromise himself. He might write the songs 


174 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


of rebellion, but be was little likely to tamper with treason 
itself. So much he would tell her w^ben be got back. Not 
angrily, nor passionately, for that would betray biin and 
disclose bis jealousy; but in the tone of a man revealing 
something be regretted, — confessing to the blemish of one 
be would have liked better to speak well of. There was not, 
be thought, anything unfair in this. He was but warning 
her against a man who was unw^ortby of her. Unworthy of 
her! What Avords could express the disparity between 
them? Not but if she liked him, — and this be said with a 
certain bitterness, — or thought she liked him, the dispro- 
portion already ceased to exist. 

Hour after hour of that long summer day he walked, 
revolving such thoughts as these; all his conclusions tending 
to the one point, that he wms not the easy victim she thought 
him, and that, come what might, he should not be offered 
up as a sacrifice to her worship of Joe Atlee. 

“There is nothing w’ould gratify the fellow’s vanity,” 
thought he, “like a successful rivalry of him! Tell him he 
was preferred to me, and he would be ready to fall down and 
worship whoever had made the choice.” 

By dwelling on all the possible and impossible issues of 
such an attachment, he had at length convinced himself of 
its existence; and even more, persuaded himself to fanc}’ it 
was something to be regretted and grieved over for worldly 
considerations, but not in any way regarded as personally 
unpleasant. 

As he came in sight of home and saAv a light in the small 
tower where Kate’s bedroom la}^, he determined he w’ould 
go up to his sister and tell her so much of his mind as he 
believed was finally settled, and in such a wuxy as w^ould 
certainly lead her to repeat it to Nina. 

“ Kate shall tell her that if I have left her suddenlv and 

V 

gone back to Trinity to keep my term, I have not fled the 
field in a moment of faint-heartedness. 1 do not deny her 
beauty. I do not disparage one of her attractions, and she 
has scores of them. I Avill not even say that when I have 
sat beside her, heard her low soft voice, and w'atched the 
tremor of that lovely mouth vibrating with Avit or tremulous 
with feeling, 1 have been all indifference; but this 1 aauII 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


175 


say, she shall not number me amongst the victims of her 
fascinations; and when she counts the trinkets on her wrist 
that record the hearts she has broken, — a pastime I once 
witnessed, — not one of them shall record the initial of Dick 
Kearney.” 

AVith these brave words he mounted the narrow stair and 
knocked at his sister’s door. No answer comino-, he 
knocked again, and after waiting a few seconds, he slowly 
opened the door and saw that Kate, still dressed, had 
thrown herself on her bed, and was sound asleep. The table 
was covered with account-books and papers. Tax receipts, 
law notices, and tenants’ letters lay littered about, showing 
what had been the task she was last engaged on ; and her 
heavy breathing told the exhaustion which it had left be- 
hind it. 

“I wish I could help her with her work,” muttered he to 
himself, as a pang of self-reproach shot through him. This 
certainly should have been his own task rather than hers; 
the question was, however. Could he have done it? And 
this doubt increased as he looked over the long column of 
tenants’ names, whose holdings varied in every imaginable 
quantity of acres, roods, and perches. Besides these there 
were innumerable small details of allowances for this and 
compensation for that. This one had given so many days' 
horse-and-car hire at the bog ; that other had got advances 
“in seed-potatoes;” such a one had a claim for reduced 
rent, because the mill-race had overflowed and deluged his 
wheat crop; such another had fed two pigs of “the Lord’s,” 
and fattened them, while himself and his own were nigh 
starving. 

Throush an entire column there was not one case without 
its complication, either in the shape of argument for in- 
creased liability, or claim for compensation. It was make- 
shift everywhere, and Dick could not but ask himself 
whether any tenant on the estate really knew how far he was 
hopelessly in debt or a solvent man? It only needed Peter 
Gill’s peculiar mode of collecting the moneys due, and 
recording the payment by the notched stick, to make the 
complication perfect; and there, indeed, upon the taifle, 
amid accounts and bills and sale warrants, lay the memo- 


176 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


rable bits of wood themselves, as that worthy steward had 
deposited them before quitting his master’s service. 

Peter’s character, too, written out in Kate’s hand, and 
only awaiting her father’s signature, was on the table, — the 
first intimation Dick Kearney had that old Gill had quitted 
his post. 

“All this must have occurred to-day,” thought Dick. 
“There were no evidences of these changes when I left this 
morning! Was it the backwater of my disgrace, I wonder, 
that has overwhelmed poor Gill?” thought he, “or can I 
detect Miss Betty’s fine Roman hand in this incident?” 

In proportion to the little love he bore Miss O’Shea, were 
his convictions the stronger that she was the cause of all 
mischief. She was one of those who took very “utilitarian ” 
notions of his own career, and he bore her small gratitude 
for the solicitude. There were short sentences in pencil 
along the margin of the chief book in Kate’s handwriting 
which could not fail to strike him as he read them, indicat- 
ing, as they did, her difficulty, if not utter incapacity, to 
deal with the condition of the estate. Thus: — 

“There is no warranty for this concession. It cannot be con- 
tinued.” “The notice in this case was dulv served, and Gill 
knows that it was to papa’s generosity they were indebted for remain- 
ing.” “ These arrears have never been paid, on that point I am 
positive!” “Malone’s holding was not fairly measured; he has 
a just claim to compensation, and shall have it.” “ Ilannigan’s 
right to tenancy must not be disputed, but cannot be used as 
a precedent by others on the same part of the estate, and I will state 
why.” “jMore of Peter Gill’s conciliatory policy ! The Regans, for 
having been twice in jail, and once indicted, and nearly convicted of 
Ribbonism, have established a claim to live rent-free ! This I will 
promise to rectify.” “ I shall make no more allowances for improve- 
ments without a guarantee, and a penalty besides on non-completion.” 

And last of all came these ominous words : — 

“ It will thus be seen that our rent-roll since ’64 has been pro- 
gressively decreasing, and that we have only been able to supply our 
expenses by sales of property. Dick must be spoken to on this, 
and at once.” 

Several entries had been already rubbed out, and it was 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


177 


clear that she had been occupied in the task of erasion on 
that veiy night. Poor girl! her sleep was the heavy repose 
of one utterly exhausted; and her closely clasped lips and 
corrugated brow showed in what frame of intense thought 
she had sunk to rest. He closed the book noiselessly, as he 
looked at her, replaced the various objects on the table, 
and rose to steal quietly away. 

The accidental movement of a chair, however, startled 
her; she turned, and, leaning on her elbow, she saw him as 
he tried to move away. “Don’t go, Dick; don’t go. 1 ’m 
awake, and quite fresh again. Is it late?” 

“It’s not far from one o’clock,” said he, half roughly, 
to hide his emotion; for her worn and wearied features 
struck him now more forcibly than when she slept. 

“And are you only returned now? How hungry 3^011 must 
be! Poor fellow, — have 3^011 dined to-day?” 

“Yes; I got to Owen IMolloy’s as they were straining the 
potatoes, and sat down with them, and ate very heartil3^, 
too.” 

“Weren’t they proud of it? Won’t they tell how the 
3"Oung Lord shared their meal with them?” 

“I don’t think the3^ are as cordial as they used to be, 
Kate ; the3" did not talk so openl3", nor seem at their ease, 
as I once knew them. And they did one thing significant 
enough in its way, that I did not like. Xhe3^ quoted the 
county newspaper twice or thrice when we talked of the 
land.” 

“I am aware of that, Dick; thc3" have got other coun- 
sellors than their landlords now,” said she, mournfully, 
“and it is our own fault if the3^ have.” 

“What, are you turning nationalist, Kitt3^?” said he, 
laughing. 

“I was always a nationalist in one sense,” said she, “and 
mean to continue so ; but let us not get upon this theme. 
Do 3’ou know that Peter Gill has left us?” 

“What, for America?” 

“No; for ‘ O’Shea’s Barn.’ Miss Bett3" has taken him. 
She came here to-day to ‘ have it out ’ with papa, as she 
said; and she has kept her word. Indeed, not alone with 
him, but with all of us, — even Nina did not escape.” 

12 


178 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Insiiffemble old Tvoman! What did she dare to say to 
Nina ? ” 

“She got off the cheapest of us all, Dick,” said she, 
laughing. “It was only some stupid remark she made her 
about looking like a boy, or being dressed like a rope- 
dancer. A small civility of this sort was her share of the 
general attention.” 

“And how did Nina take the insolence? ” 

“With great good temper or good breeding. I don’t 
know exactly which covered the indifference she displayed, 
till Miss Betty, when taking her leave, renew^ed the imper- 
tinence in the hall, by saying something about the trium- 
phant success such a costume would achieve in the circus, 
when Nina courtesied, and said, ‘ I am charmed to hear you 
say so, madam, and shall w^ear it for my benefit; and if I 
could only secure the appearance of yourself and your little 
groom, my triumph would be, indeed, complete.’ I did 
not dare to wait for more, but hurried out .to affect to bus}^ 
myself with the saddle, and pretend that it was not tightly 
girthed.” 

“I’d have given twenty pounds, if I had it, to have 
seen the old woman’s face. No one ever ventured before 
to pay her back with her own money.” 

“But I give you such a wrong version of it, Dick. I 
only convey the coarseness of the rejoinder, and I can give 
you no idea of the ineffable grace and delicacy which made 
her words sound like a humble apology. Her eyelids 
drooped as she courtesied ; and when she looked up again, in 
a way that seemed humility itself, to have reproved her 
would have appeared downright cruelty.” 

“ She is a finished coquette,” said he, bitterly; “a finished 
coquette.” 

Kate made no answer, though he evidently expected one; 
and after waiting awhile, he went on: “Not but her high 
accomplishments are clean thrown away in such a place as 
this and amongst such people. What chance of fitting 
exercise have they with my father or myself? Or is it on 
Joe Atlee she would try the range of her artillery? ” 

“Not so very impossible, this, after all,” muttered Kate, 
quietly. 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


179 


What, and is it to that her high ambitions tend ? Is he 
the prize she would strive to win? ” 

“I can be no guide to you in this matter, Dick. She 
makes no confidences with me, and of myself I see 
nothing.” 

“You have, however, some influence over her.” 

“No; not much.” 

“ 1 did not say much ; but enough to induce her to yield 
to a strong entreaty, as when, for instance, you implored 
her to spare your brother, — that poor fellow about to fall 
so hopelessly in love — ” 

“I’m not sure that my request did not come too late, 
after all,” said she, with a laughing malice in her eye. 
“Don’t be too sure of that,” retorted he, almost fiercely. 
“Oh, I never bargained for what you might do in a 
moment of passion or resentment.” 

“There is neither one nor the other here. I am perfectly 
cool, calm, and collected; and I tell you this: that whoever 
your pretty Greek friend is to make a fool of, it shall not 
be Dick Kearney.” 

“It might be very nice fooling, all the same, Dick.” 

“I know — that is, I believe I know — what you mean. 
Y"ou have listened to some of those high heroics she ascends 
to in showing what the exaltation of a great passion can 
make of any man who has a breast capable of the emotion, 
and you want to see the experiment tried in its least favor- 
able conditions, on a cold, soulless, selfish fellow of my 
own order; but, take m}^ word for it, Kate, it would prove 
a sheer loss of time to us both. Whatever she might make 
of me, it would not be a hero ; and whatever I should strive 
for, it would not be her love.'' 

“I don’t think I ’d say that if I were a man.” 

He made no answer to these words, but arose and walked 
the room with hasty steps. “It was not about these things 
I came here to talk to you, Kitty,” said he, earnestly. “I 
had my head full of other things, and now I cannot remem- 
ber them. Only one occurs to me. Have you got any money ? 
I mean a mere trifle, — enough to pay my fare to town ? ” 

“ To be sure I have that much, Dick ; but you are surely 
not going to leave us ? ” 


180 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Yes. I suddeul}^ remembered I must be up for the last 
day of term iu Trinity. Knocking about here, — I ’ll 
scarcely say amusing myself, — I had forgotten all about it. 
Atlee used to jog my memory on these things when he was 
near me ; and now, being away, I have contrived to let the 
whole escape me. You can help me, however, with a few 
pounds? ” 

“I have got five of my own, Dick; but if you want 
more — ” 

“No, no; I’ll borrow the five of your own, and don’t 
blend it with more, or I may cease to regard it as a debt of 
honor. ” 

“And if you should, my poor dear Dick — ” 

“I ’d be only pretty much what I have ever been, but 
scarcely wish to be any longer;” and he added the last 
words in a whisper. “It’s only to be a brief absence, 
Kitty,” said he, kissing her; “ so say good-bye for me to the 
others, and that I shall be soon back again.” 

“Shall I kiss Nina for you, Dick?” 

“Do; and tell her that I gave you the same commission 
for Miss O’Shea, and was grieved that both should have 
been done by deputy ! ” 

And with this he hurried away. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A HAPHAZARD VICEROY. 

When the Government came into office, they were sorely 
puzzled where to find a Lord Lieutenant for Ireland. It is, 
unhappily, a post that the men most fitted for generally 
refuse, while the Cabinet is besieged by a class of appli- 
cants whose highest qualification is a taste for mock royalty 
combined with an encumbered estate. 

Another great requisite, beside fortune and a certain 
amount of ability, was at this time looked for. The Premier 
was about, as newspapers call it, “to inaugurate a new 
policy,” and he wanted a man who knew nothing about 
Ireland! Now, it might be carelessly imagined that here 
was one of those essentials very easily supplied. Any man 
frequenting club-life or dining out in town could have safely 
pledged himself to tell off a score or two of eligible viceroys, 
so far as this qualification went. The Minister, however, 
wanted more than mere ignorance. He wanted that sort of 
indifference on which a character for impartiality could so 
easily be constructed. Not alone a man unacquainted with 
Ireland, but actually incapable of being influenced by an 
Irish motive or affected bv an Irish view of anything. 

Good luck would have it that he met such a man at dinner. 
He was an ambassador at Constantinople, on leave from his 
post, and so utterly dead to Irish topics as to be uncertain 
whether O’ Donovan Rossa was a Fenian or a Queen’s coun- 
sel, and whether he whom he had read of as the “Lion of 
Judah” was the king of beasts or the Archbishop of Tuam! 

The Minister was pleased with his new acquaintance, and 
talked much to him, and long. He talked well, and not the 
less well that his listener was a fresh audience, who heard 
everything for the first time, and with all the interest that 


182 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


attaches to a new topic. Lord Danesbury was, indeed, that 
“sheet of white paper” the head of the Cabinet had long 
been searching for, and he hastened to inscribe him with 
the characters he wished. 

“You must go to Ireland for me, my Lord,” said the Min- 
ister. “I have met no one as yet so rightly imbued wdth 
the necessities of the situation. You must be our viceroy.” 

Now, though a very high post and with great surround- 
ings, Lord Danesbury had no desire to exchange his posi- 
tion as an ambassador, even to become a Lord Lieutenant. 
Like most men who have passed their lives abroad, he grew 
to like the ways and habits of the Continent. He liked 
the easy indulgences in many things, he liked the cosmo- 
politanism that surrounds existence, and even in its little- 
ness is not devoid of a certain breadth ; and best of all he 
liked the vast interests at stake, the large questions at issue, 
the fortunes of states, the fate of dynasties! To come 
down from the great game, as pla^^ed by kings and kaisers, 
to the small trallic of a local government wrangling over a 
road-bill or disputing over a harbor, seemed too horrible 
to confront, and he eagerly begged the Minister to allow 
him to return to his post, and not risk a hard-earned repu- 
tation on a new and untried career. 

“It is precisely from the fact of its being new and un- 
tried I need ^mu,” was the reply; and his denial was not 
accepted. 

Refusal was impossible; and, with all the reluctance a 
man consents to what his convictions are more opposed to 
even than his reasons. Lord Danesbury gave in, and ac- 
cepted the vicerojmlty of Ireland. 

He was deferential to humilitv in listenino; to the Sfreat 
aims and noble conceptions of the mighty Minister, and 
pledged himself — as he could safely do — to become as 
plastic as wax in the powerful hands which were about to 
remodel Ireland. 

He was gazetted in due course, went over to Dublin, made 
a state entrance, received the usual deputations, compli- 
mented every one, from the Provost of Trinity College to 
the Chief Commissioner of Pipewater; praised the coast, 
the corporation, and the city ; declared that he had at length 


183 


A HAPHAZARD VICEROY. 

reached the highest goal of his ambition; entertained the 
high dignitaries at dinner, and the week after retired to 
his ancestral seat in North Wales, to recruit after his late 
fatigue, and throw off the effects of that damp, moist climate 
which already he fancied had affected him. 

He had been sworn in with every solemnit}^ of the occa- 
sion ; he had sat on the throne of state, named the oflicers 
of his household, made a master of the horse, and a state 
steward, and a grand chamberlain ; and, till stopped by 
hearing that he could not create ladies and maids of honor, 
he fancied himself every inch a king; but now that he had 
got over to the tranquil quietude of his mountain home, his 
thoughts went away to the old channels, and he began to 
dream of the Russians in the Balkan, and the Greeks in 
Thessaly. Of all the precious schemes that had taken him 
months to weave, what was to come of them now? How 
and with what would his successor, whoever he should be, 
oppose the rogueries of Sumayloff or the chicanery of 
Ignatief; what would any man not trained to the especial 
watchfulness of this subtle game know of the steps by 
which men advanced? Who was to watch Bulgaris, and see 
how far Russian gold was embellishing the life of Athens? 
There was not a hungr}^ agent that lounged about the Rus- 
sian embassy in Greek petticoats and pistols whose photo- 
graph the English ambassador did not possess, with a 
biographical note at the back to tell the fellow’s name and 
birthplace, what he was meant for, and what he cost. Of 
every interview of his countr 3 unen with the Grand Vizier, 
he was kept fully informed, and wdietlier a forage magazine 
was established on the Pruth, or a new frigate laid down at 
Nickolief, the news reached him by the time it arrived at 
8t. Petersburg. It is true he was aware how hopeless it 
was to write home about these things. The ambassador 
wdio writes disagreeable despatches is a bore or an old 
woman. He who dares to shake the security by which we 
daily boast we are surrounded, is an alarmist, if not worse. 
Notwithstanding this, he held his cards well “up,” and 
played them shrewdl}^. And now he was to turn from this 
crafty game, with all its excitement, to pore over constabu- 
lary reports and snub justices of the peace ! 


184 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


But there was worse than this. There was au Albauiau 
spy, who had been much employed by him of late, a clever 
fellow, with access to society, and great facilities for 
obtaining information. Seeing that Lord Danesbury should 
not return to the embassy, would this fellow go over to the 
enem}^? If so, there were no words for the mischief he 
might effect. By a subordinate position in a Greek govern- 
ment office, he had often been selected to convey despatches 
to Constantinople, and it was in this way his Lordship 
first met him; and as the fellow frankly presented himself 
with a very momentous piece of news, he at once showed 
how he trusted to British faith not to betray him. It was 
not alone the incalculable mischief such a man might do by 
change of allegiance, but the whole fabric on which Lord 
Danesbury’s reputation rested was in this man’s keeping; 
and of all that wondrous prescience on which he used to 
pride himself before the world, all the skill with which he 
baffled an adversary, and all the tact with which he over- 
whelmed a colleague, this same “Speridionides ” could give 
the secret and show the trick. 

How much more constantly, then, did his Lordship’s 
thoughts revert to the Bosphorus than the Liffy! all this 
home news was mean, commonplace, and vulgar. The whole 
drama, — scenery, actors, plot, — all were low and ignoble; 
and as for this “something that was to be done for Ireland,” 
it would of course be some slowly germinating policy to 
take root now, and blossom in another half-century; one of 
those blessed parliamentary enactments which men who 
dealt in heroic remedies like himself regarded as the chronic 
placebo of the political Quack. 

“I am well aware,” cried he, aloud, ‘‘for what they are 
sending me over. I am to ‘ make a case ’ in Ireland for a 
political legislation, and the bill is already drawn and ready; 
and while I am demonstrating to Irish Churchmen that they 
will be more pious without a religion, and the landlords 
richer without rent, the Russians will be mounting guard at 
the Golden Horn, and the last British squadron steaming 
down the Levant.” 

It was in a temper kindled by these reflections he wrote 
this note: — 


A HAPIIAZAKD VICEROY. 


185 


“ Plmnuddm Castle, North Wales. 

“ Dear Walpole, — I can make nothing out of the papers you 
have sent me ; nor am I able to discriminate between what you 
admit to be newspaper slander and the attack on the castle with the 
unspeakable name. At all events your account is far too graphic 
for the Treasury lords, who have less of the pictorial about them 
than Mr. Mudie’s subscribers. If the Irish peasants are so impatient 
to assume their rights that they will not wait for the ‘Hatt- 
lloumaioun,’ or Bill in Parliament that is to endow them, I suspect 
a little further show of energy might save us a debate and a third 
reading. I am, however, far more eager for news from Therapia. 
Tolstai has been twice over with despatches ; and Boustikoff, pre- 
tending to have sprained his ankle, cannot leave Odessa, though I 
have ascertained that he has laid down new lines of fortification, and 
walked over twelve miles per day. You may have heard of the 
great ‘ Speridionides,’ a scoundrel that supplied me with intelligence. 
I should like much to get him over here while I am on my leave, 
confer with him, and, if possible, save him from the necessity of other 
engagements. It is not every one could be trusted to deal with a 
man of this stamp, nor would the fellow himself easily hold relations 
with any but a gentleman. Are you sufficiently recovered from your 
sprained arm to undertake this journey for me ? If so, come over at 
once, that I may give you all necessary indications as to the man 
and his whereabouts. 

“ Maude has been ‘ on the sick list,’ but is better, and able to ride 
out to-day. I cannot fill the law appointments till I go over, nor 
shall I go over till I cannot help it. The Cabinet is scattered over 
the Scotch lakes; C. alone in town, and preparing for the War 
Ministry by practising the goose-step. Telegraph, if possible, that 
you are coming, and believe me yours. 


Oanesbuky.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST. 

Irishmen may reasonably enough travel for climate, they 
need scarcely go abroad in search of scenery. Within even 
a very short distance from the capital, there are landscapes 
which, for form, outline, and color, equal some of the most 
celebrated spots of Continental beauty. 

One of these is the view from Bray Head over the wide 
expanse of the Bay of Dublin, with Howth and Lambay in 
the far distance. Nearer at hand lies the sweep of that 
graceful shore to Killiney, with the Dalky Islands dotting 
the calm sea; while inland, in wild confusion, are grouped 
the Wicklow mountains, massive with wood and teeming 
with a rich luxuriance. 

When sunlight and stillness spread color over the blue 
mirror of the sea, — as is essential to the scene, — I know 
of nothing, not even Naples or Amalfi, can surpass this 
marvellous picture. 

It was on a terrace that commanded this view that Wal- 
pole and Atlee sat at breakfast on a calm autumnal morn- 
ing, the white-sailed boats scarcel}^ creeping over their 
shadows, and the whole scene, in its silence and softened 
effect, presenting a picture of almost rapturous tranquillity. 

“With half a dozen days like this,” said Atlee, as he 
smoked his cigarette, in a sort of languid grace, “one would 
not say O’Connell was wrong in his glowing admiration for 
Irish scenery. If I were to awake every day for a week to 
this, I suspect I should grow somewhat crazy myself about 
the green island.” 

“And dash the description with a little treason too,” said 
the other, superciliously. “I have always remarked the 


TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST. 


187 


ingenious connection with which Irishmen bind up a love of 
the picturesque with a hate of the Saxon.” 

“ Why not? they are bound together in the same romance. 
Can you look on the Parthenon, and not think of the 
Turk?” 

AproiJos of the Turk,” said the other, laying his hand 
on a folded letter which lay before him, “here’s a long 
letter from Lord Danesbury about that wearisome ‘ F^astern 
question, ’ as they call the ten thousand issues that await the 
solution of the Bosphorus. Do you take interest in these 
things? ” 

“Immensely. After I have blown myself with a sharp 
burst on Home politics I always take a canter among the 
Druses and the Lebanites; and I am such an authority on 
the ‘ Grand Idea,’ that Rangabe refers to me as ‘ the illus- 
trious statesman whose writings relieve England from the 
scain of universal ignorance about Greece.’” 

“And do you know anything on the subject?” 

“About as much as the present Cabinet does of Ireland. 
I know all the clap-traps; the grand traditions that have 
sunk down into a present barbarism, — of course, through 
ill government; the noble instincts depraved by gross usage; 
I know the inherent love of freedom we cherish, which 
makes men resent rents as well as laws, and teaches that 
taxes are as great a tyranny as the rights of property.” 
“And do the Greeks take this view of it? ” 

“Of course they do; and it was in experimenting on them 
that your great ministers learned how to deal with Ire- 
land. There was but one step from Thebes to Tipperary. 
Corfu was ‘ pacified ’ — that ’s the phrase for it — by abol- 
ishing the landlords. The peasants were told they might 
spare a little if they liked to the ancient possessor of the 
soil ; and so they took the ground, and they gave him the 
olive-trees. You may imagine how fertile these were, when 
the soil around them was utilized to the last fraction of 
productiveness.” 

“Is that a fair statement of the case? ” 

“Can vou ask the question? I’ll show it to you in 
print.” 

“Perhaps written by yourself.” 


188 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“And why not? What convictions have not broken on 
my mind by reading my own writings? You smile at this; 
but how do you know your face is clean till you look in a 
glass ? ” 

Walpole, however, had ceased to attend to the speaker, 
and was deeply engaged with the letter before him. 

“I see here,” cried he, “his Excellency is good enough to 
say that some mark of royal favor might be advantageously 
extended to those Kilgobbin people, in recognition of their 
heroic defence. What should it be, is the question.” 

“Confer on him the peerage, perhaps.” 

“That is totally out of the question.” 

“It w^as Kate Kearney made the defence; why not give 
her a commission in the army? Make it another ‘ woman’s 
right.’ ” 

“You are absurd, Mr. Atlee.’^ 

“ Suppose you endowed her out of the Consolidated Fund? 
Give her twenty thousand pounds, and I can almost assure 
you that a very clever fellow 1 know will marry her.” 

“A strange reward for good conduct.” 

“A prize of virtue. They have that sort of thing in 
France, and they say it gives a great support to purity of 
morals.” 

“Young Kearney might accept something if we knew what 
to offer him.” 

“I ’d say a pair of black trousers; for I think I ’m now 
wearing his last in that line.” 

“Mr. Atlee,” said the other, grimly, “let me remind you 
once again that the habit of light jesting — pei'siflage — is 
so essentially Irish you should keep it for your country- 
men; and if you persist in supposing the career of a private 
secretary suits you, this is an incongruity that will totally 
unfit you for the walk.” 

“I am sure }"Ou know your countrymen, sir, and I am 
grateful for the rebuke.” 

Walpole’s cheek flushed at this, and it was plain that 
there was a hidden meaning in the words which he felt and 
resented. 

“I do not know,” continued Walpole, “if I am not 
asking you to curb one of the strongest impulses of vour 


TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST. 


189 


disposition ; but it rests entirely with yourself whether my 
counsel be worth following:.” 

“Of course it is, sir. 1 shall follow your advice to the 
letter, and keep all my good spirits and my bad manners 
for my countrymen.” 

It was evident that Walpole had to exercise some strong 
self-control not to reply sharply; but he refrained, and 
turned once more to Lord Danesbury’s letter, in which he 
was soon deeply occupied. At last he said : “ His Excellency 
wants to send me out to Turkey, to confer with a man with 
whom he has some confidential relations. It is quite impos- 
sible that, in my present state of health, I could do this. 
Would the thing suit you, Atlee — that is, if, on considera- 
tion, I should opine that you would suit it ? ” 

“ I suspect,” replied Atlee, but with every deference in 
his manner, “ if you would entertain the last part of the 
contingency first, it would be more convenient to each of us. 
I mean whether I were fit for the situation.” 

“Well, perhaps so,” said the other, carelessly; “it is 
not at all impossible, it ina}- be one of the things 3^011 would 
acquit yourself well in. It is a sort of exercise for tact 
and discretion, — an occasion in which tliat light hand of 
yours w^ould have a field for emplo^unent, and that acute 
skill in which I know you pride ^^ourself as regards reading 
character — ” 

“ You have certain!}^ piqued my curiositjq” said Atlee. 

“ I don’t know that I ought to have said so much ; for, 
after all, it remains to be seen whether Lord Danesbuiy 
would estimate these gifts of yours as highly as I do. What 
I think of doing is tiiis : I shall send you over to his Ex- 
cellenc}^ in j^our capacity" as my own private secretaiy, to 
explain how unfit I am in my present disabled condition to 
undertake a journey. I shall tell my Lord how useful I 
have found j^our services with regard to Ireland, how much 
3^011 know of the countiy and the people, and how worth3^ of 
trust I have found 3’our information and 3"0ur opinions ; and 
I shall liint — but only hint, remember — that, for the mis- 
sion he speaks of, he might possibl3^ do worse than fix upon 
3^ourself. As of course, it rests with him to be like-minded 
with me or not upon this matter — to take, in fact, his own 


190 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


estimate of Mr. Atlee from liis own experiences of him, you 
are not to know anything whatever of this project till his 
Excellency thinks proper to open it to you. You under- 
stand that?” 

“ Thoroughly.” 

“Your mission will be to explain — when asked to ex- 
plain — certain difficulties of Irish life and habits ; and if his 
Lordship should direct conversation to topics of the East, to 
be careful to know nothing of the subject whatever, — mind 
that.” 

“ I shall be careful. I have read the ‘Arabian Nights,’ 
but that ’s all.” 

“ And of that tendency to small joking and weak epigram 
I would also caution you to beware ; they will have no suc- 
cess in the quarter to which you are going, and they will 
only damage other qualities which you might possibl}’’ rely 
on.” 

Atlee bowed a submissive acquiescence. 

“ I don’t know that you ’ll see Lady Maude Bickerstaffe, 
his Lordship’s niece.” He stopped as if he had unwittingly 
uttered an awkwardness, and then added : “I mean she 
has not been well, and may not appear while you are at the 
Castle ; but if you should, and if — which is not at all likely, 
but still possible — you should be led to talk of Kilo'obbin 
and the incident that has got into the papers, you must be 
very guarded in all you say. It is a county family of station 

and repute. We were there as visitors. The ladies I 

don’t know that I ’d say very much of the ladies.” 

“ Except that they were exceedingly plain in looks, and 
somewhat passees besides,” added Atlee, gravely. 

“I don’t see why you should say tlmt, sir,” replied the 
other, stiffly. “ If you are not bent on compromising me by 
an indiscretion, I don t perceive the necessity of involving 
me in a falsehood.” 

“You shall be perfectly safe in my hands,” said Atlee. 

“ And that I may be so, say as little about me as you can. 
I know the injunction has its difficulties, Mr. Atlee, but pray 
try and observe it.” 

The conversation had now arrived at a point in which one 
angry word more must have produced a rupture between 


TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST. 


191 


them ; and though Atlee took in the whole situation and its 
consequences at a glance, there was nothing in the easy 
jauntiness of his manner that gave any clew to a sense of 
anxiety or discomfort. 

‘‘Is it likely,” asked he, at length, “that his Excellency 
will advert to the idea of recognizing or rewarding these 
people for their brave defence ? ” 

“I am coming to that, if you will spare me a little pa- 
tience ; Saxon slowness is a blemish you ’ll have to grow 
accustomed to. If Lord Danesbury should know that you 
are an acquaintance of the Kilgobbin family, and ask you 
what would be a suitable mode of showing how their conduct 
has been appreciated in a high quarter, you should be pre- 
pared with an answer.” 

Atlee’s eyes twinkled with a malicious drollery, and he 
had to bite his lips to repress an impertinence that seemed 
almost to master his prudence, and at last he said care- 
lessly, — 

“ Dick Kearney might get something.” 

“ I suppose you know that his qualifications will be 
tested. You bear that in mind, I hope — ” 

“ Yes. I was just turning it over in my head, and 1 
thought the best thing to do would be to make him a Civil 

O O 

Service Commissioner. They are the only people taken on 
trust.” 

“You are severe, Mr. Atlee. Have these gentlemen 
earned this dislike on your part?” 

“Do you mean by having rejected me? No, that they 
have not. I believe I could have survived that; and if, 
however, they had come to the point of telling me that they 
were content with my acquirements, and what is called 
‘ passed me,’ I fervently believe I should have been seized 
with an apoplexy.” 

“ Mr. Atlee’s opinion of himself is not a mean 'one,” said 
Walpole, with a cold smile. 

“ On the contraiy, sir, I have occasion to feel pretty often 
in every twentV"fcur hours what an ignominious part a man 
plays in life who has to affect to be taught what he knows 
already, — to be asking the road where he has travelled every 
step of the way, — and to feel that a threadbare coat and 


192 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


broken boots take more from the value of bis opinions than 
if he were a knave or a blackleg.” 

“ I don’t see the humility of all this.” 

“ I feel the shame of it, though,” said Atlee ; and as he 
arose and walked out upon the terrace, the veins in his 
forehead were swelled and knotted, and his lips trembled 
with suppressed passion. 

In a tone that showed how thoroughly indifferent he felt 
to the other’s irritation, Walpole went on to say: “ You will 
then make it your business, Mr. Atlee, to ascertain in what 
way most acceptable to those people at Kilgobbin, his 
Excellency may be able to show them some mark of royal 
favor, — bearing in mind not to commit yourself to anything 
that may raise great expectations. In fact, a recognition is 
what is intended, not a reward.” 

Atlee’s eyes fell upon the opal ring, which he always wore 
since the day Walpole had given it to him, and there was 
something so significant in the glance that the other flushed 
as he caught it. 

“ I believe I appreciate the distinction,” said Atlee, 
quietly. “It is to be something in which the generosity of 
the donor is more commemorated than the merits of the 
person rewarded, and, consequently, a most appropriate 
recognition of the Celt by the Saxon. Do you think I ought 
to go down to Kilgobbin Castle, sir? ” 

“I am not quite sure about that; I’ll turn it over in my 
mind. Meanwhile I ’ll telegraph to my Lord tliat, if he 
approves, I shall send you over to Wales; and you had 
better make what arrangements you have to make, to be 
ready to start at a moment.” 

“Unfortunately, sir, I have none. I am in the full 
enjoyment of such complete destitution that I am always 
ready to go anywhere.” 

Walpole did not notice the words, but arose and walked 
over to a writing-table, to compose his message for the 
telegraph. 

“There,” said he, as he folded it, “ have the kindness to 
despatch this at once, and do not be out of the way about 
five, or half-past, when I shall expect an answer.” 

“ Am I free to go into town meanwhile? ” asked Atlee. 


TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST. 


193 


Walpole uodded assent without speaking. 

“ I wonder if this sort of llunkeydom be good for a man,” 
muttered Atlee to himself, as he sprang down the stairs. “ I 
begin to doubt it. At all events, I understand now the 
secret of the first lieutenant’s being a tyrant : he has once 
been a middy. And so I say, let me only reach the ward- 
room, and heaven help the cockpit ! ” 


13 


CHAPTER XXV. 


atlee’s embarrassments. 

When Atlee returned to dress for dinner, he was sent for 
hurriedly by Walpole, who told him that Lord Danesbury’s 
answer had arrived with the order, “ Send him over at once, 
and write fully at the same time.” 

“ There is an eleven o’clock packet, Atlee, to-night,” said 
he: “you must manage to start by that. You’ll reach 
Holyhead by four or thereabouts, and can easily get to the 
castle by midday.” 

“ I wish I had had a little more time,” muttered the other. 
“ If I am to present myself before his Excellency in such 
a ‘ rig ’ as this — ” 

“I have thought of that. We are nearly of the same 
size and build ; you are, perhaps, a trifle taller, but noth- 
ing to signify. Now, Buckmaster has just sent me a mass 
of things of all sorts from town ; they are in my dressing- 
room, not yet unpacked. Go up and look at them after 
dinner : take what suits you — as much — all, if you like 
— V)ut don’t delay now. It only wants a few minutes of 
seven o’clock.” 

Atlee muttered his thanks hastily, and went his way. If 
there was a thoughtfulness in the generosity of this action, 
the mode in Avhich it was performed, the measured cold- 
ness of the words, the look of impassive examination that 
accompanied them, and the abstention from anything that 
savored of apology for a liberty, were all deeply felt by 
the other. 

It was true, Walpole had often heard him tell of the 
freedom with which he had treated Dick Kearney’s ward- 
robe, and how poor Dick was scarcely sure he could call 
an article of dress his own, whenever Joe had been the 
first to go out into the town. The innumerable straits to 


ATLEE’S EMBARRASSMENTS. 


195 


which he reduced that unlucky chum, who had actually to 
deposit a dinner-suit at a hotel to save it from Atlee’s 
rapacity, had amused Walpole; but then these things were 
all done in the spirit of the honest familiarity that pre- 
vailed between them, — the tie of true camaraderie that 
neither suggested a thought of obligation on one side, nor 
of painful inferiority on the other. Here it was totally 
different. These men did not live together with that daily 
interchange of liberties which, with all their passing con- 
tentions, so accustom people to each other’s humors as to 
establish the soundest and strongest of all friendships. 
Walpole had adopted Atlee because he found him useful 
in a variety of ways. He was adroit, ready-witted, and 
intelligent ; a half-explanation sufficed with him on anything, 
— a mere hint was enough to give him for an interview or 
a reply. He read people readily, and rarely failed to profit 
by the knowledge. Strange as it may seem, the great 
blemish of his manner, — his snobbery, — Walpole j’ather 
liked than disliked it. It was a sort of qualifying element 
that satisfied him, as though it said, “ With all that fellow’s 
cleverness, he is not ‘ one of us.’ He might make a wittier 
reply, or write a smarter note ; but society has its little 
tests, — not one of which he could respond to.” And this 
was an inferiority Walpole loved to cherish and was pleased 
to think over. 

Atlee felt that Walpole might, with very little exercise 
of courtesy, have dealt more considerately by him. 

“I’m not exactly a valet,” muttered he to himself, “to 
whom a man flings a waistcoat as he chucks a shilling to 
a porter. I am more than IMr. Walpole’s equal in many 
things, which are not accidents of fortune.” 

He knew scores of things he could do better than him ; 
indeed, there were very few he could not. 

Poor Joe was not, however, aware that it was in the 
“not doing ” lay Walpole’s secret of superiority; that the 
inborn sense of abstention is the great distinguishing ele- 
ment of the class Walpole belonged to; and he might 
harass himself forever, and yet never guess where it was 
that the distinction evaded him. 

Atlee’s manner at dinner was unusually cold and silent. 


196 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


He habitually made the chief efforts of conversation ; now he 
spoke little and seldom. When Walpole talked, it w^as in 
that careless discursive way it was his wont to discuss 
matters with a familiar. He often put questions, and as 
often went on without waiting for the answers. 

As they sat over the dessert and were alone, he adverted 
to the other’s mission, throwing out little hints, and cau- 
tions as to manner, w'hich Atlee listened to in perfect 
silence, and without the slightest sign that could indicate 
the feeling they produced. 

“ You are going into a new country, Atlee,” said he, at 
last, “ and I am sure you will not be sorry to learn some- 
thing of the geography.” 

“Though it may mar a little of the adventure,” said the 
other, smiling. 

“Ah, that’s exactly what I want to warn you against. 
With us in England, there are none of those social vicissi- 
tudes you are used to here. The game of life is played 
gravely, quietly, and calmly. 'There are no brilliant suc- 
cesses of bold talkers, no coiqys-de-thedtre of amusing racon- 
teurs : no one tries to push himself into any position of 
eminence.” 

A half movement of impatience, as Atlee pushed his 
wine-glass before him, arrested the speaker. 

“I perceive, said he, stiffly, “you regard mj^ counsels 
as unnecessary.” 

“Not that, sir, so much as hopeless,” rejoined the other, 
coldly. 

“His Excellency will ask you, probabl}^, some questions 
about this country : let me warn you not to give him Irish 
answers.” 

“ I don’t think I understand you, sir.” 

I mean, don t deal in any exaggerations, avoid extrava- 
gance, and never be slap-dash.” 

“ Oh, these are Irish, then? ” 

Without deigning reply to this, Walpole went on. 

“Of course you have your remedy for all the evils of 
Ireland. I never met an Irishman who had not. But I 
beg you spare his Lordship your theory, whatever it is, and 
simply answer the questions he will ask you.” 


ATLEE’S EMBARRASSMENTS. 


19T 


“ I will try, sir,” was the meek reply. 

“ Above all things, let me warn yon against a favorite 
blunder of your countrymen. Don’t endeavor to explain 
peculiarities of action in this country by singularities of 
race or origin ; don’t try to make out that there are special 
points of view held that are unknown on the other side of 
the channel, or that there are other differences between 
the two peoples, except such as more rags and greater 
wretchedness produce. AVe have got over that very ven- 
erable and time-honored blunder, and do not endeavor to 
revive it.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ Fact, I assure you. It is possible in some remote 
country-house to chance upon some antiquated Tory who 
still cherishes these notions ; but you ’ll not find them 
amongst men of mind or intelligence, nor amongst any 
class of our people.” 

It was on Atlee’s lip to ask, AYho were our people? ” but 
he forebore by a mighty effort, and was silent. 

“ I don’t know if I have any other cautions to i^ive you. 
Do you?” 

“No, sir. I could not even have reminded you of these, 
if you had not yourself remembered them.” 

“ Oh, I had almost forgotten it. If his Excellency should 
give you anything to write out or to copy, don’t smoke while 
you are over it ; he abhors tobacco. I should have given you 
a warning to be equally careful as regards Lady Maude’s 
sensibilities ; but, on the whole, I suspect you ’ll scarcely 
see her.” 

“ Is that all, sir?” said the other, rising. 

“ AVell, I think so. I shall be curious to hear how you 
acquit yourself, — how you get on with his Excellency, and 
how he takes yon ; and you must write it all to me. Ain’t 
you much too early? it’s scarcely ten o’clock.” 

“ A quarter past ten ! and I have some miles to drive to 
Kinsfstown.” 

o 

“ And not yet packed, perhaps? ” said the other, listlessly. 

“No, sir; nothing read3^” 

“ Oh ! you’ll be in ample time ; I ’ll vouch for it. You are 
one of the rough-and-ready order who are never late. Not 


198 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


but iu this same flurry of yours you have made me forget 
something I know I had to say ; and you tell me you can’t 
remember it?” 

“No, sir.” 

“ And yet,” said the other, sententiously, “ the crowning 
merit of a private secretary is exactly that sort of memory. 
Your intellects, if properly trained, should be the comple- 
ment of your chief’s. The infinite number of things that 
are too small and too insignificant for him are to have 
their place, duly docketed and dated, in your brain; and 
the very expression of his face should be an indication 
to 3’ou of what he is looking for and yet cannot remember. 
Do you mark me? ” 

“Half-past ten,” cried Atlee, as the clock chimed on the 
mantelpiece ; and he hurried away without another word. 

It was only as he saw the pitiable penury of his own scanty 
wardrobe that he could persuade himself to accept of Wal- 
pole’s offer. 

“ After all,” he said, “ the loan of a dress-coat may be the 
turning-point of a whole destiny. Junot sold all he had to 
buy a sword, to make his first campaign ; all I have is my 
shame, and here it goes for a suit of clothes ! ” And, with 
these words, he rushed down to Walpole’s dressing-room, 
and, not taking time to inspect and select the contents, 
carried off the box, as it wms, with him. “ I ’ll tell him 
all when I write,” muttered he, as he drove away. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


DICK Kearney’s chambers. 

When Dick Kearnc}^ quitted Kilgobbiu Castle for Dublin, he 
was very far from having any projects in his head, excepting 
to show his cousin Nina that he could live without her. 

“ 1 believe,” muttered he to himself, “ she counts upon me 
as another ‘ victim.’ These coquettish damsels have a theory 
that the ‘ whole drama of life ’ is the game of their fascina- 
tions and the consequences that come of them, and that we 
men make it our highest ambition to win them, and subor- 
dinate all we do in life to their favor. I should like to show 
her that one man at least refuses to yield this allegiance, and 
that whatever her blandishments do with others, with him 
they are powerless.” 

These thoughts were his travelling-companions for nigh 
fifty miles of travel, and, like most travelling-companions, 
grew to be tiresome enough towards the end of the journey. 

When he arrived in Dublin, he was in no hurry to repair to 
his quarters in Trinity ; they were not particularly cheery in 
the best of times, and now it was long vacation, with few 
men in town and everything sad and spiritless ; besides this, 
he was in no mood to meet Atlee, whose free-and-easy jocu- 
larity he knew he would not endure, even with his ordinary 
patience. Joe had never condescended to write one line 
since he had left Kilgobbiu, and Dick, who felt that in pre- 
senting him to his family he had done him immense honor, 
was proportionately indignant at this show of indifference. 
But, by the same easy formula with which he could account 
for anything in Nina’s conduct, by her “ coquetry,” he was 
able to explain every deviation from decorum of Joe Atlee’s, 
by his “ snobbery.” And it is astonishing how comfortable 


200 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


the thought made him, that this mao, in all his smartness 
and ready wit, in his prompt power to acquire, and his still 
greater quickness to apply knowledge, was after all a most 
consummate snob. 

He had no taste for a dinner at commons, so he ate his 
mutton-chop at a tavern, and went to the play. Ineffably 
bored, he sauntered along the almost deserted streets of the 
city, and just as midnight was striking, he turned under the 
arched portal of the College. Secretly hoping that Atlee 
might be absent, he inserted the key and entered his 
quarters. 

The grim old coal-bunker in the passage, the silent corri- 
dor, and the dreary room at the end of it, never looked more 
dismal than as he surveyed them now by the light of a little 
wax match he had lighted to guide his wa3^ There stood 
the massive old table in the middle, with its litter of books 
and papers, — memories of many a headache ; and there was 
the paper of coarse Cavendish, against which he had so often 
protested, as well as a pewter-pot, — a new infraction against 
propriety since he had been away. Worse, however, than 
all assaults on decency, were a pair of coarse highlows, 
which had been placed within the fender, and had evidently 
enjoyed the fire so long as it lingered in the grate. 

“So like the fellow! so like him!” was all that Dick 
could mutter, and he turned away in disgust. 

As Atlee never went to bed till daybreak, it was quite 
clear that he was from home ; and as the College gates could 
not reopen till morning, Dick was not sorry to feel that he 
was safe from all intrusion for some hours. With this con- 
solation, he betook him to his bedroom, and proceeded to 
undress. Scarcely, however, had he thrown off his coat 
than a heavy, long-drawn respiration startled him. He 
stopped and listened : it came again, and from the bed. He 
drew nigh, and there, to his amazement, on liis own pillow, 
lay a massive head of a coarse-looking, vulgar man, of about 
thirty, with a silk handkerchief fastened over it as nightcap. 
A brawny arm lay outside the bed-clothes, with an enormous 
hand of very questionable cleanness, though one of the 
fingers wore a heavy gold ring. 

Wishing to gain what knowledge he might of his guest 


DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS. 


201 


before awaking him, Dick turned to inspect his clothes, 
which, in a wdld disorder, lay scattered through the room. 
They were of the very poorest ; but such still as might have 
belonged to a very humble clerk, or a messenger in a count- 
ing-house. A large black leather pocket-book fell from a 
pocket of the coat, and, in replacing it, Dick perceived it 
was filled with letters. On one of these, as he closed the 
clasp, he read the name “Mr. Daniel Donogan, Dartmouth 
Jail.” 

“ What! ” cried he, “ is this the great head centre, Dono- 
gan, I have read so much of? and how is he here?” 

Though Dick Kearney was not usually quick of appre- 
hension, he was not long here in guessing what the situation 
meant; it was clear enough that Donogan, being a friend of 
Joe Atlee, had been harbored here as a safe refuge. Of all 
places in the capital, none were so secure from the visits of 
the police as the College ; indeed it would have been no 
small hazard for the public force to have invaded these pre- 
cincts. Calculating therefore that Kearney was little likely 
to leave Kilgobbin at present, Atlee had installed his friend 
in Dick’s quarters. The indiscretion was a grave one ; in 
fact, there was nothing — even to expulsion itself — might 
not have followed on discovery. 

“ So like him ! so like him ! ” was all he could mutter, as 
he arose and walked about the room. 

While he thus mused, he turned into Atlee’s bedroom, and 
at once it appeared why Mr. Donogan had been accommo- 
dated in his room. Atlee’s was perfectly destitute of every- 
thing : bed, chest of drawers, dressing-table, chair, and bath 
were all gone. The sole object in the chamber was a coarse 
print of a well-known informer of the year ’98, “Jemmy 
O’Brien,” under whose portrait was written, in Atlee’s hand, 
“Bought in at fourpence-halfpenny, at the general sale, in 
affectionate remembrance of his virtues, by one who feels 
himself to be a relative. — J. A.” Kearney tore down the 
picture in passion, and stamped upon it; indeed, his indig- 
nation with his chum had now passed all bounds of restraint. 

“So like him in everything!” again burst from him in 
utter bitterness. 

Havino- thus satisfied himself that he had read the incident 


202 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


aright, he returned to the sitting-room, and at once decided 
that he would leave Douogan to his rest till morning. 

“It will be time enough then to decide what is to be 
done,” thought he. 

He then proceeded to relight the fire, and, drawing a sofa 
near, he wrapped himself in a railway-rug, and lay down to 
sleep. For a long time he could not compose himself to 
slumber. He thought of Nina; and her ■wiles, — ay, they 
were wiles, — he saw them plainly enough. It was true he 
was no prize — no “catch,” as they call it — to angle for; 
and such a girl as she was could easily look higher ; but 
still he mi2;ht swell the list of those followers she seemed to 
like to behold at her feet offering up every homage to her 
beauty, even to their actual despair. And he thought of 
his own condition, — very hopeless and purposeless as it 
wms. 

“What a journey to be sure was life, without a goal to 
strive for ! Kilgobbin would be his one day ; but by that 
time would it be able to pay off the mortgages that were 
raised upon it? It was true Atlee was no richer; but Atlee 
was a shifty, artful fellow, with scores of contrivances to go 
windward of fortune in even the very worst of wmather. 
Atlee would do many a thing he would not stoop to.” 

And as Kearney said this to himself, he was cautious in 
the use of his verb, and never said “could,” but always 
“would” do; and, oh dear! is it not in this fashion that so 
many of us keep up our courage in life, and attribute to the 
want of will what we well know lies in the want of 
power? 

Last of all he bethought himself of this man Donogan, a 
dangerous fellow in a certain way, and one whose com- 
panionship must be got rid of at any price. Plotting over 
• in his mind how this should be done in the morning, he at 
last fell fast asleep. 

So overcome was he by slumber that he never awoke 
when that venerable institution called the College woman — 
the hag whom the virtue of unerring dons insists on impos- 
ing as a servant on resident students — entered, made up 
the fire, swept up the room, and arranged the breakfast- 
table. It was only as she jogged his arm to ask him for an 


DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS. 


203 


additional penny to buy more milk, that be awoke and 
remembered where he was. 

“ Will I get yer honer a bit of bacon?” asked she, in a 
tone intended to be insinuating. 

“ Whatever you like,” said he, drowsily. 

“ It’s himself there likes a rasher, — when he can g'et it,” 
said she, with a leer, and a motion of her thumb towards the 
adjoining room. 

“ Whom do you mean?” asked he, half to learn what and 
how much she knew of his neighbor. 

“Oh! don’t 1 know him well? — Dan Donogan,” replied 
she, with a grin. “ Did n’t I see him in the dock with Smith 
O’Brien in ’48, and was n’t he in trouble again after he got 
his pardon ; and won’t he always be in trouble?” 

“ Hush 1 don’t talk so loud,” cried Dick, warniugl}^ 

“ He ’d not hear me now if I was screechiu’ ; it ’s the only 
time he sleeps hard ; for he gets up about three or half-past 
— before it ’s day — and he squeezes through the bars of the 
window, and gets out into the Park, and he takes his exer- 
cise there for two hours, most of the time running full speed 
and keeping himself in fine wind. Do you know what he 
said to me the other day? ‘ Molly,’ says he, ‘ when I know 
I can get between those bars there, and run round the Col- 
lege Park in three minutes and twelve seconds, I feel that 
there ’s not many a jail in Ireland can howld, and the divil a 
policeman in the island could catch, me.’ ” And she had to 
lean over the back of a chair to steady herself while she 
laughed at the conceit. 

“I think, after all,” said Kearney, “I’d rather keep out 
of the scrape than trust to that way of escaping it.” 

“ iYe wouldn’t,” said she. “He’d rather be seducin’ 
soldiers in Barrack Street, or swearing in a new Fenian, or 
nailing a death-warnin’ on a hall-door, than he ’d be lord 
maj'or ! If he was n’t in mischief, he ’d like to be in his 
grave.” 

“And what comes of it all?” said Kearney, scarcely 
giving any exact meaning to his words. 

“That’s what I do be saying myself,” cried the hag. 
“'When thej^ can transport you for singing a l)allad, and 
send 3 "ou to pick oakum for a green cravat, it ’s time to take 


204 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


to some other trade than patriotism ! ” And with this re- 
flection she shuffled away, to procure the materials for 
breakfast. 

The fresh rolls, the watercress, a couple of red herrings 
devilled as those ancient damsels are expert in doing, and a 
smoking dish of rashers and eggs, flanked a hissing tea- 
kettle, soon made their appearance, the hag assuring Kear- 
ney that a stout knock with the poker on the back of the 
grate would summon Mr. Donogan almost instantaneously^ 
so rapidly, indeed, and with such indifference as to raiment, 
that, as she modestly declared, “I have to take to my heels 
the moment I call him ; ” and the modest avowal was con- 
firmed by her hasty departure. 

The assurance was so far correct that scarcely had Kear- 
ney replaced the poker when the door opened, and one of 
the strangest figures he had ever beheld presented itself in 
the room. He was a short thick-set man with a profusion 
of yellowish hair, which, divided in the middle of the head, 
hung down on either side to his neck; beard and moustache 
of the same hue left little of the face to be seen but a pair 
of lustrous blue eyes, deep-sunken in their orbits, and a short 
wide-nostrilled nose which bore the closest resemblance to 
a lion’s. Indeed, a most absurd likeness to the king of 
beasts was the impression produced on Kearney as this 
wild-looking fellow bounded forward, and stood there 
amazed at findins; a stranger to confront him. 

His dress was a flannel shirt and trousers, and a pair of 
old slippers which had once been Kearney’s own. 

“I was told by the College woman how I was to summon 
you, Mr. Donogan,” said Kearney, good-naturedly. “You 
are not offended with the liberty?” 

“Are you Dick?” asked the other, coming forward. 

“Yes. I think most of my friends know me by that 
name.” 

“And the old devil has told you mine?” asked he, 
(piickly. 

“No, I believe I discovered that for myself. I tumbled 
over some of your things last night, and saw a letter 
addressed to you.” 

“You did n’t read it? ” 


DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS. 


205 


“Certainly not. It fell out of your pocket-book, and I 
put it back there.” 

“So the old hag did n’t blab on me? I ’m anxious about 
this, because it ’s got out somehow that I ’m back again. I 
landed at Kenmare in a fishing-boat from the New York 
packet, the ‘ Osprey,’ on Tuesday fortnight, and three of the 
newspapers had it before I was a week on shore.” 

“Our breakfast is getting cold; sit down here and let me 
help you. Will you begin with a rasher?” 

Not replying to the invitation, Donogan covered his plate 
with bacon, and leaning his arm on the table, stared fixedly 
at Kearney. 

“1 ’m as glad as fifty pounds of it,” muttered he slowly 
to himself. 

“Glad of what? ” 

“Glad that you’re not a swell, Mr. Kearney,” said he, 
gravely. “ ‘ The Honorable Richard Kearne}^, ’ — w'heuever 
I repeated that to myself it gave me a cold sweat. I 
thought of velvet collars and a cravat with a grand pin in it, 
and a stuck-up creature behind both that wouldn’t conde- 
scend to sit down with me.” 

“I ’m sure Joe Atlee gave you no such impression of 
me.” 

A short grunt that might mean anything was all the 
reply. 

“He was my chum, and knew me better,” reiterated the 
other. 

“He knows many a thing he doesn’t say, and he says 
plenty that he does n’t know\ ‘ Kearney will be a swell,’ 
said I, ‘ and he ’ll turn upon me just out of contempt for my 
condition.’ ” 

“That was judging me hardly, Mr. Donogan.” 

“No, it wasn’t; it’s the treatment the mangy dogs meet 
all the world over. Why is England insolent to us, but 
because we ’re poor? — answer me that. Are we mangy? 
Don’t you feel mangy? — I know 1 do! ” 

Dick smiled a sort of mild contradiction, but said 
nothing. 

“Now that I see you, Mr. Kearney,” said the other, “I’m 
as glad as a ten-pound note about a letter I wrote you — ” 

“I never received a letter from you.” 


206 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Sure I know you did n’t! have n’t 1 got it here? ” And 
he drew forth a square-shaped packet and held it up before 
him. “I never said that 1 sent it, nor 1 won’t send it now. 
Here ’s its present address,” added he, as he threw it on the 
fire and pressed it down with his foot. 

“AYhy not have given it to me now? ” asked the other. 

“Because three minutes will tell you all that was in it, 
and better than writing ; for I can repl}^ to anything that 
wants an explanation, and that ’s what a letter cannot. 
First of all, do you know that Mr. Claude Barry, your 
county member, has asked for the Chiltern, and is going 
to resign? ” 

“No, I have not heard it.” 

“AYell, it ’s a fact. They are going to make him a 
second secretary somewhere, and pension him off. He has 
done his work. He voted an Arms Bill and an Insurrection 
Act, and he had the influenza when the amnesty petition 
was presented; and sure no more could be expected from 
any man.” 

“The question scarcely concerns me; our interest in the 
county is so small now, w^e count for very little.” 

“And don’t you know how to make your influence 
greater? ” 

“I cannot say that I do.” 

“Go to the poll yourself, Richard Kearney, and be the 
member.” 

“You are talking of an impossibility, Mr. Donogan. 
First of all, we have no fortune, no large estates in the 
county, with a wide tenantry and plenty of votes; secondly, 
we have no place amongst the county families, as our old 
name and good blood might have given us; thirdly, we are 
of the wrong religion, and, I take it, with as wrong politics, 
and, lastly, we should not know what to do with the prize 
if we had won it.” 

“Wrong in every one of your propositions; wholly 
wrong,” cried the other. “The party that will send you in 
won’t want to be bribed, and they ’ll be proud of a man 
who does n’t overtop them with his money. You don’t need 
the big families, for you ’ll beat them. Your religion is 
the right one, for it will give you the Priests; and your 
politics shall be Repeal, and it will give you the Peasants ; 


DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS. 


207 


and as to not knowing w^hat to do when you ’re elected, are 

you so mighty well off in life that you ’ve nothing to wish 
for?” 

“I can scarcely say that,” said Dick, smiling. 

“Give me a few minutes’ attention,” said Donogan, “and 
I think I ’ll show you that I ’ve thought this matter out and 
out 5 indeed, before I sat down to write to you, I went into 
all the details.” 

And now, with a clearness and a fairness that astonished 
Kearney, this strange-looking fellow proceeded to prove 
how he had weighed the whole difficulty, and saw how^ in 
the nice balance of the two great parties who wmuld contest 
the seat, the Repealer would step in and steal votes from 
both. 

He showed not only that he knew every barony of the 
county, and every estate and property, but that he had a 
clear insight into the different localities wffiere discontent 
prevailed, and places where there was something more than 
discontent. 

“It is down there,” said he, significantly, “that I can be 
useful. The man that has had his foot in the dock, and 
only escaped having his head in the noose, is never discred^ 
ited in Ireland. Talk parliament and parliamentary tac- 
tics to the small shopkeepers in Moate, and leave me to talk 
treason to the people in the bog.” 

“But I mistake you and your friends greatly,” said Kear- 
ney, “if these w^ere the tactics you alwmys follow’ed; I 
thought that you w^ere the physical force party, who sneered 
at constitutionalism, and only believed in the pike.” 

“ So we did, so long as we saw O’Connell and the law’3^ers 
working the game of that grievance for their own advantage, 
and teaching the English Government how to rule Ireland 
by a system of concession to fZtem and to their friends. 
Now, however, we begin to perceive that to assault that 
heavy bastion of Saxon intolerance we must have spies in 
the enemy’s fortress, and for this we send in so maii}^ mem- 
bers to the Whig party. There are scores of men who will 
aid us by their vote who would not risk a bone in our 
cause. Theirs is a sort of subacute patriotism; but it 
has its use. It smashes an Established Church, lireaks 


208 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


down Protestant ascendency, destroys the prestige of landed 
property, and will in time abrogate entail and piimogeni- 
ture, and many another fine thing; and in this way it clears 
the ground for our operations, just as soldiers fell tiees and 
levet houses, lest they interfere with the range of heavy 
artillery.” 

“So that the place you would assign me is that very hon- 
orable one you have just called a ‘ spy in the camp ? 

‘‘By a figure I said that, Mr. Kearney; but you know well 
enough what I meant was, that there ’s many a man will help 
us on the Treasury benches, that would not turn out on 
Tallaght; and we want both. I won’t say,” added he, after 
a pause, “I ’d not rather see you a leader in our ranks than 
a Parliament man. I was bred a doctor, Mr. Kearney, and 
I must take an illustration from my own art. To make a 
man susceptible of certain remedies, you are often obliged 
to reduce his strength and weaken his constitution. So it 
is here. To bring Ireland into a condition to be bettered 
by Repeal, you must crush the Church and smash the bitter 
Protestants. The Whigs will do these for us ; but w^e must 
help them. Do you understand me now? ” 

“I believe I do. In the case you speak of, then, the 
Government will support my election.” 

“ Against a Tory, yes ; but not against a pure Whig, — 
a thorough-going supporter w^ho would bargain for nothing 
for his country, only something for his own relations.” 

“If your project has an immense fascination for me at 
one moment, and excites my ambition beyond all bounds, 
the moment I turn my mind to the cost, and remember my 
own poverty, I see nothing but hopelessness.” 

“That’s not my view of it; nor when you listen to me 
patiently will it, I believe, be yours. Can we have another 
talk over this in the evening? ” 

“To be sure! we ’ll dine here together at six.” 

“Oh, never mind me; think of yourself, Mr. Kearney, 
and your own engagements. As to the matter of dining, a 
crust of bread and a couple of apples are fully as much as 
I want or care for.” 

“We ’ll dine togethei’ to-day at six,” said Dick; “and bear 
in mind, I am more interested in this than you are.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR. 

As they were about to sit down to dinner on that da}’, a 
telegram, re-directed from Kilgobbin, reached Kearney’s 
hand. It bore the date of that morning from Plmnuddm 
Castle, and was signed “Atlee.” Its contents were these: 
“II. E. w’ants to mark the Kilgobbin defence with some sign 
of approval. What shall it be? Reply by wire.” 

“Read that, and tell us what you think of it.” 

“Joe Atlee at the Viceroy’s castle in Wales!” cried the 
other. ‘AVe’re going up the ladder hand overhead, Mr. 
Kearney ! A week ago his ambition was bounded on the 
south by Ship Street, and on the east by the Lower Castle 
Yard.” 

“ How do you understand the despatch? ” asked Kearney, 
quickly. 

“Easily enough. His Excellency wants to know what 
you’ll have for shooting down three — I think they were 
three — Irishmen.” 

“The fellows came to demand arms, and with loaded guns 
in their hands.” 

“And if they did! Is not the first right of a man the 
weapon that defends him ? He that cannot use it or does 
not possess it is a slave. By what prerogative has Kilgob- 
bin Castle, within its walls, w’hat can take the life of any, 
the meanest, tenant on the estate?” 

“I am not going to discuss this with you; I think I have 
heard most of it before, and w’as not impressed when I did 
so. What I asked was, what sort of a recognition one might 
safely ask for and reasonably expect?” 

“That ’s not long to look for. Let them support you in 
the county. Telegraph back, ‘I’m going to stand, and, if 

14 


210 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


I get in, will be a Whig whenever I am not a nationalist. 
Will the party stand by me? ’ ” 

“Scarcely with that programme.” 

“And do you think that the priests’ nominees, who are 
three-fonrths of the Irish members, offer better terms? Do 
you imagine that the men that crowd the Whig lobby have 
not reserved their freedom of action about the Pope, and 
the Fenian prisoners, and the Orange processionists? If 
they were not free so far, I ’d ask you, with the old Duke, 
How is her Majesty’s Government to be carried on?” 

Kearney shook his head in dissent. 

“And that ’s not all,” continued the other; “but you must 
write to the papers a flat contradiction of that shooting 
story. You must either declare that it never occurred at all, 
or was done by that young scamp from the Castle, who, 
happily, got as much as he gave.” 

“That I could not do,” said Kearney, firmly. 

“And it is that precisely that you must do,” rejoined the 
other. “If you go into the House to represent the popular 
feeling of Irishmen, the hand that signs the roll must not be 
stained with Irish blood.” 

“You forget; I was not within fifty miles of the place.” 

“And another reason to disavow it. Look here, Mr. 
Kearney; if a man in a battle was to say to himself, I ’ll 
never give any but a fair blow, he ’d make a mighty bad 
soldier. Now, public life is a battle, and worse than a 
battle in all that touches treachery and falsehood. If 3^11 
mean to do any good in the world, to 3^ourself and your 
country, take my word for it, you ’ll have to do plenty^ 
of things that you don’t like, and, what’s worse, can’t 
defend.” 

“The soup is getting cold all this time. Shall we sit 
down ? ” 

“No, not till we answer the telegram. Sit down and say^ 
what I told 3^11.” 

“Atlee wdll say I’m mad. He knows that I have not a 
shilling in the world.” 

“Riches is not the badge of the representation,” said the 
other. 

“They can, at least, pay the cost of the elections.” 


A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR. 


211 


“Well, we’ll pay ours, too, — not all at once, but later on ; 
don’t fret yourself about that.” 

“They ’ll refuse me flatly.” 

“ No, we have a lien on the flue gentleman with the broken 
arm. What would the Tories give for that story, told as I 
could tell it to them? At all events, whatever you do in 
life, remember this, — that if asked your price for anything 
you have done, name the highest, and take nothing if it ’s 
refused you. It ’s a waiting race, but I never knew it fail 
in the end.” 

Kearney despatched his message, and sat down to the 
table, far too much flurried and excited to care for his 
dinner. Not so his guest, who ate voraciously, seldom 
raising his head, and never uttering a word. “Here ’s to 
the new member for King’s County,” said he at last, and he 
drained off his glass; “and I don’t know a pleasanter way 
of wishing a man prosperity than in a bumper. Has your 
father any politics, Mr. Kearney?” 

“He thinks he’s a Whig; but, except hating the Estab- 
lished Church and having a print of Lord Russell over the 
fireplace, I don’t know he has other reason for the opinion.” 
“All right; there ’s nothing finer for a young man enter- 
ing public life than to be able to sneer at his father for a 
noodle. That ’s the practical way to show contempt for the 
wisdom of our ancestors. There ’s no appeal the public 
respond to with the same certainty as that of the man who 
quarrels with his relations for the sake of his principles; 
and whether it be a change in your politics or your religion, 
they ’re sure to uphold 3^011.” 

“If differing with my father will insure my success, I 
can afford to be confident,” said Dick, smiling. 

“Your sister has her notions about Ireland, hasn’t she?” 
“Yes, I believe she has; but she fancies that laws and 
acts of Parliament are not the things in fault, but ourselves 
and our modes of dealing with the people, that were not 
often just, and were always capricious. I am not sure how 
she works out her problem, but I believe we ought to edu- 
cate each other; and that in turn, for teaching the people to 
read and write, there are scores of things to be learned from 
them.” 


212 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


‘‘ And the Greek girl ? ” 

“The Greek girl — ’’began Dick, haughtily, and with a 
manner that betokened rebuke, and which suddenly changed 
as he saw that nothing in the other’s manner gave any 
indication of intended freedom or insolence, — “the Greek 
is my first cousin, Mr. Donogan,” said he, calmly; “but I 
am anxious to know how you have heard of her, or, indeed, 
of any of us.” 

“From Joe, — Joe Atlee! I believe we have talked you 
over — every one of you — till I know you all as well as if I 
lived in the castle and called you by your Christian names. 
Do you know, Mr. Kearney,” — and his voice trembled now 
as he spoke, — “that to a lone and desolate man like myself, 
who has no home and scarcely a country, there is some- 
thing indescribably touching in the mere picture of the fire- 
side, and the family gathered round it, talking over little 
homely cares and canvassing the changes of each day’s 
fortune. I could sit here half the night and listen to Atlee 
telling how you lived, and the sort of things that interested 
you.” 

“So that you ’d actually like to look at us? ” 

Donogan’ s eyes grew glassy, and his lips trembled, but 
he could not utter a word. 

“So you shall, then,” cried Dick, resolutely. “We’ll 
start to-morrow by the early train. You ’ll not object to a 
ten-miles’ walk, and we ’ll arrive for dinner.” 

“Do you know who it is you are inviting to your father’s 
house? Do 3^ou know that I am an escaped convict, with a 
price on my head this minute? Do you know the penalt}^ 
of giving me shelter, or even what the law calls comfort?” 

“I know this, that in the heart of the Bog of Allen, 
3^011 ’ll be far safer than in the city of Dublin; that none 
shall ever learn who you are; nor, if the3^ did, is there one 
— the poorest in the place — would betra3^ you.” 

“It is of you, sir, I ’m thinking, not of me,” said Dono- 
gan, calmly. 

“Don’t fret yourself about us. We are well known in 
our county, and above suspicion. Whenever 3^011 3^ourself 
should feel that your presence was like to be a danger, I am 
quite willing to believe you ’d take yourself off.” 


A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR. 


213 


“You judge me rightly, sir, and I am proud to see it; 
but how are you to present me to your friends ? ” 

“As a College acquaintance, — a friend of Atlee’s and of 
mine, — a gentleman who occupied the room next me. I 
can surely say that with truth.” 

“And dined with you every day since you knew him. 
Why not add that? ” 

He laughed merrily over this conceit, and at last Donogan 
said: “I’ve a little kit of clothes — something decenter 
than these — up in Thomas Street, No. 13, Mr. Kearney; the 
old house Lord Edward was shot in, and the safest place in 
Dublin now, because it is so notorious. I ’ll step up for 
them this evening, and I ’ll be ready to start when you 
like.” 

“Here ’s good fortune to us, whatever we do next,” said 
Kearney, filling both their glasses; and they touched the 
brims together, and clinked them before they drained 
them. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


“on the leads.” 

* 

Kate Kearney’s room was on the top of the castle, and 
“gave ” by a window over the leads of a large square tower. 
On this space she had made a little garden of a few' flowers, 
to tend which was one of what she called her “dissipations.” 
Some old packing-cases, filled with mould, suMIced to 
nourish a few stocks and carnations, a rose or two, and a 
mass of mignonette, which possibly, like the children of 
the poor, grew up sturdy and healthy from some of the 
adverse circumstances of their condition. It was a very 
favorite spot with her; and if she came hither in her hap- 
piest moments, it was here also her saddest hours were 
passed, sure that in the cares and employments of her loved 
plants she would find solace and consolation. It was at this 
window Kate now sat with Nina, looking over the vast 
plain, on which a rich moonlight was streaming, the shadows 
of fast-flitting clouds throwing strange and fanciful effects 
over a space almost wide enough to be a prairie. 

“What a deal have mere names to do with our imagina- 
tions, Nina!” said Kate. “Is not that boundless sweep 
before us as fine as your boasted Cam])agna? Does not 
the night wind career over it as joyfully, and is not the 
moonlight as picturesque in its breaks by turf-clamp and 
hillock as by ruined wall and tottering temple? In a 
word, are not we as well here, to drink in all this delicious 
silence, as if we were sitting on your loved Pincian?” 
“Don’t ask me to share such heresies. I see nothing 
out there but bleak desolation. I don’t know if it ever had 
a past; I can almost swear it will have no future. Let us 
not talk of it.” 

“What shall we talk of ? ” asked Kate, with an arch smile. 


“ON THE LEADS.” 


215 


“You know well enough what led me up here. I want to 
hear what }’ou know of that strange man Dick brought here 
to-day to dinner.” 

“I never saw him before; never even heard of him.” 

“Do vou like him?” 

“I have scarcely seen him.” 

“Don’t be so guarded and reserved. Tell me frankly the 
impression he makes on you. Is he not vulgar, — very 
vulgar? ” 

“How should I say, Nina? Of all the people you ever 
met, who knows so little of the habits of society as myself? 
Those line gentlemen who were here the other day shocked 
my ignorance by numberless little displays of indifference. 
Yet 1 can feel that they must have been paragons of good 
breeding, and that what I believed to be a very cool self- 
sufficiency was in reality the very latest London version 
of good manners.” 

“Oh, you did not like that charming carelessness of Eng- 
lishmen that goes where it likes and when it likes, that does 
not wait to be answered when it questions, and only insists 
on one thing, which is, — ‘ not to be bored.’ If you knew, 
dearest Kate, how foreigners school themselves, and strive 
to catch up that insouciance, and never succeed — never! ” 
“My brother’s friend certainly is no adept in it.” 

“He is insufferable. I don’t know that the man ever 
dined in the company of ladies before ; did you remark that 
he did not open the door as we left the dinner-room? and 
if your brother had not come over, I should have had to 
open it for myself. I declare I ’m not sure he stood up as 
we passed.” 

“Oh, yes; I saw him rise from his chair.” 

“I ’ll tell you what you did not see. You did not see 
him open his napkin at dinner. He stole his roll of bread 
very slyl}^ from the folds, and then placed the napkin, care- 
fullv folded, beside him.” 

“You seem to have observed him closel}q Nina.” 

“I did so, because I saw enough in his manner to excite 
suspicion of his class, and I want to know what Dick means 
by introducing him here.” 

“ Papa liked him; at least he said that after we left the 


216 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


room a good deal of bis shyness wore off, and that be con- 
versed pleasantly and well. Above all, be seems to know 
Ireland perfectly.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said she, half disdainfully. 

“ So much so that I was heartily sorry to leave the room 
when I beard them begin the topic ; but I saw papa wished 
to have some talk with him, and I went.” 

“They were gallant enough not to join us afterwards, 
though I think we waited tea till ten.” 

“Till nigh eleven, Nina; so that I am sure they must 
have been interested in their conversation.” 

“ I hope the explanation excuses them.” 

“I don’t know that they are aware they needed an 
apology. Perhaps they were affecting a little of that British 
insouciance you spoke of — ” 

“ They had better not. It will sit most awkwardly on 
their Irish habits.” 

“ Some day or other I’ll give you a formal battle on this 
score, Nina, and I warn you you ’ll not come so well out 
of it.” 

“ Whenever you like. I accept the challenge. Make 
this brilliant companion of your brother’s the type, and it 
will test your cleverness, I promise you. Do you even 
know his name?” 

“Mr. Daniel, my brother called him; but I know nothing 
of his country or of his belongings.” 

“ Daniel is a Christian name, not a famil}- name, is it 
not? We have scores of people like that — Tommasina, 
Riccardi, and such like — in Italy, but they mean nothing.” 
“Our friend below stairs looks as if that was not his 
failing. I should say that he means a good deal.” 

“ Oh, I know you are laughing at my stupid phrase — no 
matter ; you understand me, at all events. I don’t like 
that man.” 

“ Dick’s friends are not fortunate with you. I remem- 
ber how unfavorably you judged of Mr. Atlee from his 
portrait.” 

“Well, he looked rather better than his picture, — less 
false, I mean ; or perhaps it was that he had a certain levity 
of manner that carried off the perfidy.” 


“ON THE LEADS.” 


217 


“ What an amiable sort of levity ! ” 

“ You are too critical on me by half this evening,” said 
Nina, pettishly ; and she arose and strolled out upon the 
leads. 

For some time Kate was scarcely aware she had gone. 
Her head was full of cares, and she sat trying to think 
some of them “out,” and see her way to deal with them. 
At last the door of the room slowly and noiselessly opened, 
and Dick put in his head. 

“ I was afraid you might be asleep, Kate,” said he, enter- 
ing, “ finding all so still and quiet here.” 

“No. Nina and I were chatting here, — squabbling, I 
believe, if I were to tell the truth ; and I can’t tell when 
she left me.” 

“ What could you be quarrelling about?” asked he, as he 
sat down beside her. 

“ I think it was with that strange friend of yours. We 
were not quite agreed whether his manners were perfect, or 
his habits those of the well-bred world. Then we wanted 
to know more of him, and each was dissatisfied that the 
other was so ignorant; and, lastly, we were canvassing that 
very peculiar taste you appear to have in friends, and were 
wondering where you find your odd people.” 

“ So then you don’t like Donogan? ” said he, hurriedly. 

“ Like whom? And you call him Donogan ! ” 

“The mischief is out,” said he. “Not that I wanted to 
have secrets from you ; but all the same, I am a precious 
bungler. Ilis name is Donogan, and what’s more, it’s 
Daniel Donogan. He was the same who figured in the dock 
at, I believe, sixteen years of age, with Smith O’Brien and 
the others, and was afterwards seen in England in ’51), 
.known as a head-centre, and apprehended on suspicion in ’60, 
and made his escape from Dartmoor the same year. There ’s 
a very pretty biography in skeleton, is it not?” 

“ But, ray dear Dick, how are you connected with him? ” 
“Not very seriously. Don’t be afraid. I’m not com- 
promised in any way, nor does he desire that I should be. 
Ilere is the whole story of our acquaintance.” 

And now he told what the reader already knows of their 
first meeting and the intimacy that followed it. 


218 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“All that will take nothiiig from the danger of harboring 
a man charged as he is,” said she, gravely. 

“ That is to say, if he be tracked and discovered.” 

“ It is what I mean.” 

“ Well, one has only to look out of that window and see 
where we are, and what lies around us on every side, to be 
tolerably easy on that score.” 

And as he spoke, he arose, and walked out upon the 
terrace. 

“ What I were you here all this time?” asked he, as he 
saw Nina seated on the battlement, and throwing dried 
leaves carelessly to the wind. 

“Yes; I have been here this half-hour, perhaps longer.” 

“ And heard what we have been saying within there? ” 

“ Some chance words reached me, but I did not follow 
them.” 

“Oh, it was here you were then, Nina! ” cried Kate. 
“ I am ashamed to say I did not know it.” 

“We got so warm in discussing your friend’s merits or 
demerits that we parted in a sort of huff,” said Nina. “I 
wonder was he worth quarrelling for?” 

“What should you say?” asked Dick, inquiringly, as he 
scanned her face. 

“ In any other land I might say he was, — that is, that 
some interest might attach to him ; but liere, in Ireland, 
you all look so much brighter and wittier and more im- 
petuous and more out of tlie common than you really are, 
that I give up all divination of you, and own I cannot read 
3"ou at all.” 

“I hope you like the explanation,” said Kate to her 
brother, laughing. 

“I’ll tell my friend of it in the morning,” said Dick; 
“ and as he is a great national champion, perhaps he ’ll 
accept it as a defiance.” 

“You do not frighten me by the threat,” said Nina, 
calmly. 

Dick looked from her face to his sister’s and back again 
to hers, to discern if he might how much slie had over- 
heard ; but he could read nothing in her cold and impas- 
sive bearing, and he went his way in doubt and confusion. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN. 

Before Kearney bad risen from his bed the next morning, 
Donogan was in his room, his look elated and his cheek 
glowing with recent exercise. “ I have had a burst of two 
hours’ sharp walking over the bog,” cried he; “and it has 
put me in such spirits as I have not known for many a 
year. Do you know, Mr. Kearney, that what with the 
fantastic effects of the morning mists, as they lift them- 
selves over these vast wastes, — the glorious patches of blue 
heather and purple anemone that the sun displays through 
the fog, — and, better than all, the springiness of a soil 
that sends a thrill to the heart, like a throb of youth it- 
self, — there is no walking in the world can compare with a 
bog at sunrise ! There ’s a sentiment to open a paper on 
nationalities ! I came up with the postboy, and took his 
letters to save him a couple of miles. Here ’s one for you, 
I think from Atlee ; and this is also to your address, from 
Dublin; and here’s the last number of the ‘Pike,’ and 
you’ll see they have lost no time. There’s a few lines 
about you : ‘ Our readers will be grateful to us for the tid- 

ings we announce to-day, with authority, — that Richard 
Kearney, Esq., son of Mathew Kearney, of Kilgobbin 
Castle, will contest his native county at the approaching 
election. It will be a proud day for Ireland when she shall 
see her representation in the names of those who dignify 
the exalted station they hold in virtue of their birth and 
blood, by claims of admitted talent and recognized ability. 
]\Ir. Kearney, junior, has swept the University of its prizes, 
and the Collesfe Sfate has long seen his name at the head 
of her prizemen. He contests the seat in the national 
interest. It is needless to say all our sympathies and 
hopes and best wishes go with him.’” 


220 


LORD KILGOBinX. 


Dick shook with laughing while the other read out the 
paragraph in a high-sounding and pretentious tone. 

“ I hope/’ said Kearney, at last, “ that the information 
as to my College successes is not vouched for on authority.” 
“Who cares a fig about them? The phrase rounds off 
a sentence, and nobody treats it like an affidavit.” 

“But some one may take the trouble to remind the 
readers that my victories have been defeats, and that in 
my last examination but one I got ‘cautioned.’” 

“Do 3^ou imagine, Mr. Kearney, the House of Commons 
in any way reflects college distinction? Do you look for 
senior-wranglers and double-firsts on the Treasury bench? 
and are not the men who carry away distinction the men 
of breadth, not depth? Is it not the wide acquaintance with 
a large field of knowledge, and the subtle power to know 
how other men regard these topics, that make the popu- 
lar leader of the present day? And remember, it is talk, 
and not oratory, is the mode. You must be commonplace, 
and even vulgar, practical, dashed with a small morality, 
so as not to be classed with the low Radical ; and if then 
you have a bit of high falutin for the peroration, you ’ll 
do. The morning papers will call you a young man of 
great promise, and the whip will never pass you without 
a shake-hands.” 

“ But there are good speakers.” 

“ There is Bright, — I don’t think I know another, — and 
he only at times. Take my word for it, the secret of success 
with ‘ the collective wisdom ’ is reiteration. Tell them the 
same thing, not once or twice or even ten, but fifty times, 
and don’t vary very much even the way you tell it. Go on 
repeating your platitudes, and by the time you find you are 
cursing your own stupid persistence, you may swear vou 
have made a convert to your opinions. If you are bent on 
variety, and must indulge it, ring your changes on the man 
who brought these views before them, — yourself, but beyond 
these never soar. O’Connell, who had a variety at will for 
his own countrymen, never tried it in England : he knew 
better. Phe chaw’bacons that we sneer at are not always in 
smock-frocks, take my word for it ; they many of them wear 
wide-brimmed hats and broadcloth, and sit above the o-ano-. 


ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN. 


221 


way. Ay, sir,” cried he, warming with the theme, “once I 
can get my countrymen fully awakened to the fact of who 
and what are the men who rule them, ITl ask for no Catholic 
Associations, or Repeal Committees, or Nationalist Clubs, — 
the card-house of British supremacy will tumble of itself ; 
there will be no conflict, but simply submission.” 

“We’re a long day’s journey from these convictions, I 
suspect,” said Kearney, doubtfully. 

“ Not so far, perhaps, as you think. Do you remark how 
little the English press deal in abuse of us to what was once 
their custom ? They have not, I admit, come down to civility ; 
but they don’t deride us in the old fashion, nor tell us, as I 
once saw, that we are intellectually and physically stamped 
with inferiority. If it was true, Mr. Kearney, it was stupid 
to tell it to us.” 

“ I think we could do better than dwell upon these things.” 

“ I deny that: deny it in toto. The moment you forget, 
in your dealings with the Englishman, the cheap estimate he 
entertains, not alone of your brains and your skill, but of 
your resolution, your persistence, your strong will, ay, your 
very integrity, that moment, I say, places him in a position 
to treat you as something below him. Bear in mind, how- 
ever, how he is striving to regard you, and it ’s your own 
fault if you’re not his equal, and something more perhaps. 
There was a man more than the master of them all, and his 
name wms Edmund Burke; and how' did they treat him? 
How insolently did they behave to O’Connell in the House 
till he put his heel on them? Were they generous to Shell? 
Were they just to Plunkett ? No, no. The element that they 
decry in our people they know they have not got, and tliey ’d 
like to crush the race, w'hen they cannot extinguish the 
quality.” 

Donogan had so excited himself now that he walked up 
and down the room, his voice ringing with emotion, and 
his arms wildly tossing in all the extravagance of passion. 
“This is from Joe Atlee,” said Kearney, as he tore open 
the envelope : — 

“ ‘ Dear Dick, — I cannot account for the madness that seems 
to have seized you, except that Dan Donogan, the most rabid dog I 
know, has bitten you. If so, for heaven’s sake have the piece cut 


900 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


out at once, and use the strongest cautery of common sense, if you 
know of any one who has a little to spare. I only remembered 
yesterday that I ought to have told you I had sheltered Dan in our 
rooms, but I can already detect that you have made his accpiaint- 
ance. He is not a bad fellow. He is sincere in his opinions, and 
incorru})tible, if that be the name for a man who, if bought to-mor- 
row, would not be worth sixpence to his owner. 

“ ‘ Though I resigned all respect for my own good sense in telling 
it, I was obliged to let H. E. know the contents of your despatch, 
and then, as I saw he had never heard of Kilgobbin, or the great 
Kearney family, I told more lies of your estated property, your 
county station, your influence generally, and your abilities individu- 
ally, than the fee-simple of your property, converted into masses, 
will see me safe through purgatory ; and 1 have consequently baited 
the trap that has caught myself ; for, persuaded by my eloquent ad- 
vocacy of you all, H. E. has written to Walpole to make certain 
inquiries concerning you, which, if satisfactory, he, Walpole, will 
put himself in communication with you, as to the extent and the 
mode to which the Government will support you. I think I can see 
Dan Donogan’s fine hand in that part of your note which fore- 
shadows a threat, and hints that the Walpole story would, if pub- 
lished abroad, do enormous damage to the Ministry. This, let me 
assure you, is a fatal error, and a blunder which could only be com- 
mitted by an outsider in political life. The days are long past since 
a scandal could smash an administration ; and we are so strong now 
that arson or forgery could not hurt, and I don’t think that infanti- 
cide would affect us. 

“ ‘ If you are really bent on this wild exploit, you should see AVal- 
pole, and confer with him. You don’t talk well, but you write 
worse ; so avoid correspondence, and do all your indiscretions ver- 
bally. Be angry if you like with my candor, but follow my counsel. 

“‘See him, and show him, if you are able, that, all (questions of 
nationality apart, he may count upon your vote ; that there are 
certain impracticable and impossible conceits in politics, — like re- 
peal, subdivision of land, restoration of the confiscated estates, and 
suchlike, — on which Irishmen insist on being free to talk balder- 
dash, and air their patriotism ; but that, rightfully considered, they 
are as harmless and mean just as little as a discussion on the 
Digamma, or a debate on perpetual motion. The stupid Tories 
could never be brought to see this. Like genuine dolts, they would 
have an army of supporters one-minded with them in everything. 
We know better, and hence we buy the Radical vote by a little 
coquetting with communism, and the model working-man and the 
rebel by an occasional jail- delivery, and the Papist by a sop to the 
Holy Father. Bear in mind, Dick, — and it is the grand secret of 


ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN. 


ooq 


political life, — it takes all sorts of people to make a “ partv.” When 
you have thoroughly digested this aphorism, you are fit to start in 
the world. 

“ ‘ If you were not so full of what I am sure you would call your 
“ legitimate ambitions,” I ’d like to tell you the glorious life we lead 
in this place. Disraeli talks of “ the well-sustained splendor of their 
stately lives,” and it is just the phrase for an existence in which all 
the appliances to ease and enjoyment are supplied by a sort of 
magic, that never shows its machinery, nor lets you hear the sound 
of its working. The saddle-horses know when I want to ride bv the 
same instinct that makes the butler give me the exact wine I wish 
at my dinner. And so on throughout the day, “ the sustained splen- 
dor” being an ever-present luxuriousness that I drink in with a 
thirst that knows no slaking. 

“‘I have made a hit with H. E., and, from copying some rather 
muddle-headed despatches, I am now promoted to writing short 
skeleton sermons on politics, which, duly filled out and fattened with 
official nutriment, will one day astonish the Irish Office, and make 
one of the Nestors of bureaucracy exclaim, “ See how Danesbury 
has got up the Irish question.” 

“ ‘ I have a charming collaborateur, my Lord’s niece, Avho was 
acting as his private secretary up to the time of my arrival, and 
whose explanation of a variety of things I found to be so essential 
that, from being at first in the continual necessity of seeking her out, 
I have now arrived at a point at which we write in the same room, 
and pass our mornings in the library till luncheon. She is stun- 
ningly handsome, as tall as the Greek cousin, and with a statelv 
"race of manner and a cold dignity of demeanor I ’d "ive mv heart’s 
blood to subdue to a mood of womanly tenderness and dependence. 
Up to this, my position is that of a very humble courtier in the 
presence of a (jueen, and she takes care that by no momentary 
for"etfulness shall I lose sight of the “ situation.” 

“ ‘ She is engaged, they say, to be married to Walpole ; but as I 
have not heard that he is heir- apparent, or has even the reversion 
to the crown of Spain, I cannot perceive what the contract means. 

“ ‘ I rode out with her to-day by special invitation, or permission, 
— which was it? — and in the few words that passed between us, 
she asked me if I had long known Mr. Walpole, and put her horse 
into a canter without waiting for my answer. 

“ ‘ With II. E. I can talk away freely and without constraint. 
I am never very sure that he does not know the things he questions 
me on better than myself, — a practice some of his order rather cul- 
tivate ; but, on the whole, our intercourse is easy. I know he is 
not a little puzzled about me, and I intend that he should remain so. 

“ ‘ When you have seen and spoken with Walpole, write me what 


224 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


has taken place between you ; and though I am fully convinced that 
what you intend is unmitigated folly, 1 see so many difficulties in the 
way, such obstacles, and such almost impossibilities to be overcome, 
that I think Fate will be more merciful to you than your ambitions, 
and spare you, by an early defeat, from a crushing disappointment. 

“ ‘ Had you ambitioned to be a governor of a colony, a bishop, 
or a Queen’s messenger, — they are the only irresponsible people I 
can think of, — I might have helped you ; but this conceit to be a 
Parliament man is such irredeemable folly, one is powerless to deal 
with it. 

“ ‘ At all events, your time is not worth much, nor is your public 
character of a very grave importance. Give them both, then, freely 
to the effort, but do not let it cost you money, nor let Donogan per- 
suade you that you are one of those men who can make patriotism 
self-supporting. 

“ ‘ H. E. hints at a very confidential mission on which he desires 
to employ me ; and though I should leave this place now, with much 
regret, and a more tender sorrow than I could teach you to compre- 
hend, I shall hold myself at his orders for Japan if he wants me. 
Meanwhile, write to me what takes place with Walpole, and put 
your faith firmly in the good-will and efficiency of 

“ ‘ y ours truly, 

“ ‘ Joe Atlee.” 

“ ‘ If you think of taking Donogan down with you to Kilgobbin, I 
ought to tell you that it would be a mistake. Women invariably 
dislike him, and he would do vou no credit.’ ” 

Dick Kearney, who had began to read this letter aloud, 
saw^ himself constrained to continue, and went on boldly, 
without stop or hesitation, to the last word. 

“I am very grateful to you, Mr. Kearney, for this mark 
of trustfulness, and I ’m not in the least sore about all Joe 
has said of me.” 

“ He is not over complimentary to myself,” said Kearney ; 
and the irritation he felt was not to be concealed. 

“There’s one passage in his letter,” said the other, 
thoughtfully, “ well w'orth all the stress he lays on it. He 
tells you never to forget it ‘ takes all sorts of men to make 
a party.’ Nothing can more painfully prove the fact than 
that we need Joe Atlee amongst ourselves ! And it is true, 
Mr. Kearney,” said he, sternly, “treason must now, to have 
any chance at all, be many-handed. We Tvant not only all 
sorts of men, but in all sorts of places ; and at tables where 


ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN. 


225 


rebel opinions dared not be boldly announced and defended, 
Ave want people who can coquet with felony, and get men to 
talk over treason with little if any ceremony. Joe can do 
this, — he can write, and, what is better, sing you a Fenian 
ballad, and if he sees he has made a mistake, he can quiz 
himself and his song as cavalierly as he has sung it ! And 
now, on my solemn oath, I say it, I don’t know that any- 
thing worse has befallen us than the fact that there are such 
men as Joe Atlee amongst us, and that we need them, — ay, 
sir, we need them ! ” 

“This is brief enough, at any rate,” said Kearney, as he 
broke open the second letter : — 

“ ‘ Dublin Castle, Wednesday Evening. 

“ ‘ I)r:AR Sir, — Would you do me the great favor to call on me 
here at vour earliest convenient moment ? I am still an invalid, and 
confined to a sofa, or would ask for permission to meet you at your 
chambers, 

“ ‘ Believe me, yours faithfully, 

“ ‘ Cecil Walpole.’ ” 

“That cannot be delayed, I suppose?” said Kearney, iu 
the tone of a question. 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ I’ll go up by the night mail. You’ll remain where you 
are, and where I hope you feel you are with a welcome.” 

“I feel it, sir, — I feel it more than I can say.” And 
his face was blood-red as he spoke. 

“ There are scores of things you can do while I am away. 
You’ll have to study the county in all its baronies and sub- 
divisions. There my sister can help you ; and you ’ll have 
to learn the names and places of our great county swells, 
and mark such as may be likely to assist us. You ’ll have 
to stroll about in our own neighborhood, and learn what 
the people near home say of the intention, and pick up 
what you can of public opinion in our towns of Moate and 
Kilbeggan.” 

“I have bethought me of all that — ” He paused here, 
and seemed to hesitate if he should say more ; and, after an 
effort, he went on: “You’ll not take amiss what I’m 
going to say, Mr. Kearney. You ’ll make full allowance 

15 


226 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


for a man placed as I am ; but I want, before you go, to 
learn from you in what way, or as what, }^ou have presented 
me to your family. Am I a poor sizar of Trinity, whose 
hard struggle with poverty has caught your sympathy ? Am 
I a chance acquaintance, whose onl}^ claim on you is being 
known to Joe Atlee? I’m sure 1 need not ask you, have 
you called me by my real name and given me my real 
character? ” 

Kearney flushed up to the eyes, and laying his hand on 
the other’s shoulder, “This is exactly w^hat I have done. 
1 have told my sister that you are the noted Daniel Donogan, 
United Irishman and rebel.” 

“ But only to your sister? ” 

“ To none other.” 

“ She''\\ not betray me, I know that.” 

“ You are right there, Donogan. Here ’s how it happened, 
for it was not intended.” And now he related how the name 
had escaped him. 

“ So that the cousin knows nothino;? ” 

“Nothing whatever. My sister Kate is not one to make 
rash confidences, and you may rely on it she has not told 
her.” 

“I hope and trust that this mistake will serve you for a 
lesson, Mr. Kearney, and show you that to keep a secret it 
is not enough to have an honest intention, but a man must 
have a watch over his thoughts and a padlock on his tongue. 
And now to something of more importance. In your meet- 
ing with M alpole, mind one thing: no modesty, no humility; 
make your demands boldly, and declare that your price is 
well worth the paying; let him feel that, as he must make 
a choice between the priests and the nationalists, that we 
are the easier of the two to deal with, — first of all, we 
don t press for prompt payment; and secondly, we ’ll not 
shock Kxeter Hall ! Show him that strongly, and tell him 
that there are clever fellows amongst us who ’ll not compro- 
mise him or his party, and will never desert him on a close 
division. Oh, dear me, how I wish I was o^oins; in vour 
place ! ” 

“So do I, with all my heart; but there ’s ten striking, and 
we shall be late for breakfast.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


THE MOATE STATION. 

The train by which Miss Betty O’Shea expected her nephew 
was late in its arrival at Moate; and Peter Gill, w^ho had 
been sent with the car to fetch him over, was busily dis- 
cussing his second supper when the passengers arrived. 

“Are you Mr. Gorman O’Shea, sir?” asked Peter, of a 
well-dressed and well-looking young man who had just 
taken his luggage from the train. 

“No; here he is,” replied he, pointing to a tall, powerful 
young fellow, whose tweed suit and billycock hat could not 
completely conceal a soldierlike bearing and a sort of com- 
pactness that comes of “drill.” 

“ That ’s my name. \Yhat do you want with me? ” cried 
he, in a loud but pleasant voice. 

“Only that Miss Betty has sent me over with the car for 
your honor, if it ’s plazing to you to drive across.” 

“What about this broiled bone. Miller?” asked O’Shea. 
“I rather think I like the notion better than when you 
proposed it.” 

“I suspect you do,” said the other; “but we’ll have to 
step over to the ‘ Blue Goat.’ It ’s only a few yards off, 
and they ’ll be ready; for I telegraphed them from town to 
be prepared as the train came in.” 

“You seem to know the place well.” 

“Yes. I may say I know something about it. I can- 
vassed this part of the county once for one of the Idlers, and 
I secretly determined if I ever thought of trying for a seat 
in the House, I ’d make the attempt here. They are a most 
pretentious set of beggars, these small townsfolk, and they ’d 
rather hear themselves talk politics, and give their notions 
of what they think ‘ good for Ireland, ’ than actually pocket 


228 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


bank-notes; and that, my dear friend, is a virtue in a con- 
stituency never to be ignored or forgotten. The moment, 

then, 1 heard of M ’s retirement, I sent off a confidential 

emissary down here to get up what is called a requisition, 
asking me to stand for the county. Here it is, and the 
answer, in this morning’s ‘Freeman.’ You can read it at 
your leisure. Here Ave are now at the ‘Blue Goat;’ and 
1 see they are expecting us.” 

Not only was there a capital fire in the grate, and the table 
ready laid for supper, but a half-dozen or more of the 
notabilities of Moate were in waiting to receive the new 
candidate, and confer with him over the coming contest. 

“My companion is the nephew of an old neighbor of 
yours, gentlemen,” said Miller, — “Captain Gorman O’Shea, 
of the Imperial Lancers of Austria. 1 know 3 ^ou have heard 
of, if you have not seen him.” 

A round of very hearty and demonstrative salutations 
followed, and Gorman was w’^ell pleased at the friendly 
reception accorded him. 

Austria Avas a great country, one of the company obseiwed. 
They had got liberal institutions and a free press, and they 
AA'ere good Catholics, aaTo would gi\"e those heretical Prus- 
sians a fine lesson one of these days; and Gorman O’Shea’s 
health, coupled with these sentiments, was drank wdth all 
the honors. 

“There ’s a jolly old face that I ought to remember well,” 
said Gorman, as he looked up at the portrait of Lord Kil- 
gobbin OA^er the chimney. “When I entered the seiwice, 
and came back here on leaA^e, he gave me the first SAvord I 
ever wore, and treated me as kindly as if I was his son.” 

The hearty speech elicited no response from the hearers, 
AAdio only exchanged significant looks with each other; while 
Miller, apparently less under restraint, broke in with, “That 
stupid ad\'enture the English newspapers called ‘ The gal- 
lant resistance of Kilgobbin Castle ’ has lost that man the 
esteem of Irishmen.” 

A perfect burst of approval followed these words; and 
while young O’Shea eagerly pressed for an explanation of 
an incident of which he heard for the first time, they one 
and all proceeded to give their versions of what had occurred; 


THE MOATE STATION. 


229 


but with such coutradictious, correctious, and emendations 
that the young man might be pardoned if he comprehended 
little of the event. 

“They say his son will contest the county with you, Mr. 
Miller,” cried one. 

“Let me have no weightier rival, and I ask no more.” 
“Faix, if he’s going to stand,” said another, “his father 
might have taken the trouble to ask us for our votes. 
AVould you believe it, sir, it ’s going on six months since he 
put his foot in this room?” 

“And do the ‘ Goats ’ stand that?” asked Miller. 

“I don’t wonder he doesn’t care to come into Moate. 
There ’s not a shop in the town he does n’t owe money to.” 
“And we never refused him credit — ” 

“For anything but his principles,” chimed in an old 
fellow, wTose oratory was heartily relished. 

“lie’s going to stand in the national interest,” said one. 
“That’s the safe ticket when you have no money,” said 
another. 

“Gentlemen,” said Miller, who rose to his legs to give 
greater importance to his address, “if we wmnt to make 
Ireland a country to live in, the only party to support is the 
Whig Government! The nationalist may open the jails, 
give license to the press, hunt down the Orangemen, and 
make the place generally too hot for the English. But are 
these the things that you and I want or strive for? We want 
order and quietness in the land, and the best places in it for 
ourselves to enjoy these blessings. Is Mr. Casey down 
there satisfied to keep the post-office in iMoate when he 
knows he could be the first secretary in Dublin, at the head 
office, with two thousand a year? Will my friend Mr. 
McGloin say that he ’d rather pass his life here tlian be a 
Commissioner of Customs, and live in Merrion Square? 
Ain’t w'e men? Ain’t we fathers and husbands? Have 
we not sons to advance and daughters to marry in the world? 
and how much will nationalism do for these? 

“I will not tell you that the Whigs love us or have any 
strong regard for us ; but they need us, gentlemen, and they 
know well that, without the Radicals, and Scotland, and 
our party here, they could n’t keep power for three weeks. 


230 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Now, why is Scotland a great and prosperous country? I ’ll 
tell you. Scotland has no sentimental politics. Scotland 
says, in her own homely adage, ‘ Ca’ me and I’ll ca’ thee.’ 
Scotland insists that there should be Scotchmen everywhere, 
— in the Post-Office, in the Privy Council, in the Pipewater, 
and in the Punjaub! Does Scotland go on vaporing about 
an extinct nationality or the right of the Stuarts? Not a 
bit of it. She says. Burn Scotch coal in the navy, though 
the smoke may blind you and you never get up steam! 
She has no national absurdities ; she neither asks for a flag 
nor a Parliament. She demands only what will pay. And 
it is by supporting the \Yhigs, you will make Ireland as 
prosperous as Scotland. Literally, the Fenians, gentlemen, 
will never make my friend yonder a baronet, nor put me on 
the Bench; and now that we are met here in secret com- 
mittee, I can say all this to you, and none of it get abroad. 

“Mind, I never told you the Whigs love us, or said that 
we love the Whigs ; but we can each of us help the other. 
When they smash the Protestant party, they are doing a 
fine stroke of work for Liberalism in pulling down a cruel 
ascendancy and righting the Romanists. And when ive 
crush the Protestants, we are opening the best places in the 
land to ourselves by getting rid of our only rivals. Look 
at the Bench, gentlemen, and the high offices of the courts. 
Have not we Papists, as they call us, our share in both? 
And this is only the beginning, let me tell you. There is 
a university in College Green due to us, and a number of 
fine palaces that their bishops once lived in, and grand old 
cathedrals whose very names show the rightful ownership; 
and when we have got all these, — as the Whigs will give 
them one day, — even then we are only beginning. And 
now turn the other side, and see what you have to expect 
from the nationalists. Some very hard fighting and a great 
number of broken heads. I give in that you ’ll drive the 
English out, take the Pigeon House Fort, capture the 
Magazine, and carry away the Lord Lieutenant in chains. 
And what will you have for it, after all, but another scrim- 
mage amongst yourselves for the spoils? Mr. Mullen, of 
the ‘ Pike,’ will want something that Mr. Darby McKeown 
of the ‘ Convicted Felon ’ has just appropriated ; Tom 


THE MOATE STATION. 


231 


Casidy, that burned the Grand Master of the Orangemen, 
finds that he is not to be pensioned for life; and Phil Cos- 
tigan, that blew up the Lodge in the Park, discovers that he 
is not even to get the ruins as building materials. I tell 
you, my friends, it ’s not in such convulsions as these that 
you and I, and other sensible men like us, want to pass our 
lives. We look for a comfortable berth and quarter-day; 
that ’s what we compound for, — quarter-day, — and I give 
it to you as a toast with all the honors.” 

And certainly the rich volume of cheers that greeted the 
sentiment vouched for a hearty and sincere recognition of 
the toast. 

“The chaise is ready at the door. Councillor,” cried the 
landlord, addressing Mr. Miller; and after a friendly shake- 
hands all round. Miller slipped his arm through O’Shea’s 
and drew him apart. 

“I ’ll be back this way in about ten days or so, and I ’ll 
ask you to present me to your aunt. She has got above a 
hundred votes on her property, and I think I can count 
upon you to stand by me.” 

“I can, perhaps, promise you a welcome at the Barn,” 
muttered the young fellow, in some confusion; “but when 
you have seen my aunt, you ’ll understand why I give you 
no pledges on the score of political support.” 

“Oh, is that the way?” asked Miller, with a knowing 
laugh. 

“Yes, that’s the way, and no mistake about it,” replied 
O’Shea; and they parted. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


HOW THE “goats” revolted. 

In less than a week after the events last related, the members 
of the “Goat Club ” were summoned to an extraordinary and 
general meeting, by an invitation from the vice-president, 
Mr. McGloin, the chief grocer and hardware-dealer of Kil- 
beggan. The terms of this circular seemed to indicate 
importance, for it said, “To take into consideration a 
matter of vital interest to the society.” 

Though only the denizen of a very humble country town, 
McGloin possessed certain gifts and qualities which might 
have graced a higher station. He was the most self- 
contained and secret of men ; he detected mysterious mean- 
ings in every — the smallest — event of life; and as he 
divulged none of his discoveries, and only pointed vaguely 
and dimly to the consequences, he got credit for the correct- 
ness of his unuttered predictions as completely as though 
he had registered his prophecies as copyright at Stationers’ 
Hall. It is needless to say that on every question, religious, 
social, or political, he was the paramount authorit}" of the 
town. It was but rarely, indeed, that a rebellious spirit 
dared to set up an opinion in opposition to his ; but if such 
an hazardous event were to occur, he would suppress it with 
a dignity of manner which derived no small aid from the 
resources of a mind rich in historical parallel; and it was 
really curious for those who believe that history is always 
repeating itself, to remark how frequently John iMcGloin 
represented the mind and character of Lycurgus, and how 
often poor old, dreary, and bog-surrounded Moate recalled 
the image of Sparta and its “sunny slopes.” 

Now, there is one feature of Ireland which I am not quite 
sure is very generally known or appreciated on the other 


HOW THE “GOATS” REVOLTED. 


233 


side of St. George’s Channel, and this is the fierce spirit 
of indignation called up in a county habitually quiet, when 
the newspapers bring it to public notice as the scene of 
some lawless violence. For once there is union amongst 
Irishmen. Every class, from the estated proprietor to the 
humblest peasant, is loud in asserting that the story is an 
infamous falsehood. Magistrates, priests, agents, middle- 
men, tax-gatherers, and tax-payers, rush into print to abuse 
the “blackguard” — he is always the blackguard — who 
invented the lie; and men upwards of ninety are quoted to 
show that so long as they could remember, there never was 
a man injured, nor a rick burned, nor a heifer hamstrung in 
the six baronies round! Old newspapers are adduced to 
show how often the going judge of assize has complimented 
the grand jury on the catalogue of crime; in a word, the 
whole population is ready to make oath that the county is 
little short of a terrestrial paradise, and that it is a district 
teeming with gentle landlords, pious priests, and industrious 
peasants, without a plague-spot on the face of the county 
except it be the police barrack, and the company of lazy 
vagabonds with cross-belts and carbines, that lounge before 
it. When, therefore, the press of Dublin at first, and after- 
wards of the empire at large, related the night attack for 
arms at Kilgobbin Castle, the first impulse of the county at 
large was to rise up in the face of the nation and deny the 
slander! Magistrates consulted together whether the high- 
sherilf should not convene a meeting of the count}". Priests 
took counsel with the bishop, whether notice should not be 
taken of the calumny from the altar. The small shop- 
keepers of the small towns, assuming that their trade would 
be impaired by these rumors of disturbance, — just as 
Parisians used to declaim against barricades in the streets, 
— are violent in denouncing the malignant falsehoods upon 
a quiet and harmless community; so that, in fact, every 
rank and condition vied with its neighbor in declaring that 
the whole story was a base tissue of lies, and which could 
only impose upon those who knew nothing of the county, 
nor of the peaceful, happy, and brother-like creatures who 
inhabited it. 

It was not to be supposed that, at such a crisis, Mr. John 


234 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


McGloiu would be inactive or indifferent. As a man of 
considerable intlnence at elections, be bad bis weight with 
a county member, Mr. Price; and to bim be wrote, demand- 
ing that be should ask in the House what correspondence 
bad passed between Mr. Kearney and the Castle authorities 
with reference to this supposed outrage, and whether the law 
officers of the Crown, or the adviser of the Vicero}^ or the 
chiefs of the local police, or — to quote the exact words — 
“any sane or respectable man in the county” believed one 
word of the story. Lastly, that be would also ask whether 
any and what correspondence bad passed between Mr. Kear- 
ney and the Chief Secretary with respect to a small bouse 
on the Kilgobbin property which Mr. Kearney had suggested 
as a convenient police-station, and for which he asked a 
rent of twenty-five pounds per annum; and if such corre- 
spondence existed, whether it had any or what relation to 
the rumored attack on Kilgobbin Castle? 

If it should seem strange that a leading member of the 
“ Goat Club ” should assail its president, the explanation is 
soon made; Mr. McGloin had long desired to be the chief 
himself. He and many others had seen, with some irrita- 
tion and displeasure, the growing indifference of Mr. Kear- 
ney for the “ Goats.” For many months he had never called 
them together, and several members had resigned, and many 
more threatened resignation. It was time, then, that some 
energetic steps should be taken. The opportunity for this 
was highly favorable. Anything unpatriotic, anything even 
unpopular in Kearney’s conduct, would, in the then temper 
of the club, be sufficient to rouse them to actual rebellion; 
and it was to test this sentiment, and, if necessaiy, to stim- 
ulate it, Mr. McGloin convened a meeting which a by-law 
of the society enabled him to do at any period when, for the 
three preceding months, the president had not assembled 
the club. 

Though the members generall}^ were not a little proud of 
their president, and deemed it considerable glory to them 
to have a viscount for their chief, and though it gave great 
dignity to their debates that the rising speaker should begin 
“IMy Lord and Buck Goat,” yet they were not without 
dissatisfaction at seeing how cavalierly he treated them. 


HOW THE “GOATS” REVOLTED. 




what slight value he appeared to attach to their companion- 
ship, and how perfectly indifferent he seemed to their 
opinions, their wishes, or their wants. 

There were various theories in circulation to explain this 
change of temper in their chief. Some ascribed it to 
young Kearney, who was a “stuck-up” young fellow, and 
wanted his father to give himself greater airs and preten- 
sions. Others opinioned it was the daughter, Avho, though 
she played Lady Bountiful among the poor cottiers, and 
affected interest in the people, was in reality the proudest 
of them all. And last of all, there were some who, in open 
defiance of chronology, attributed the change to a post- 
dated event, and said that the swells from the Castle were 
the ruin of Mathew Kearney, and that he was never the 
same man since the day he saw them. 

Whether any of these were the true solution of the diffi- 
culty or not, Kearney’s popularity was on the decline at the 
moment when this unfortunate narrative of the attack on 
his castle aroused the whole county and excited their feel- 
ings against him. Mr. McGloin took every step of his 
proceeding with due measure and caution; and having 
secured a certain number of promises of attendance at the 
meeting, he next notified to his Lordship, how, in virtue of 
a certain section of a certain law, he had exercised his 
right of calling the members together; and that he now 
begged respectfully to submit to the chief, that some of the 
matters which would be submitted to the collective wisdom 
would have reference to the “ Buck Goat ” himself, and that 
it would be an act of great courtesy on his part if he should 
condescend to be present and afford some explanation. 

That the bare possibility of being called to account by 
the “Goats” would drive Kearney into a ferocious passion, 
if not a fit of the gout, McGloin knew well ; and that the 
very last thing on his mind would be to come amongst them, 
he was equally sure of: so that in giving his invitation there 
was no risk whatever. Mathew Kearney’s temper was no 
secret; and whenever the necessity should arise that a burst 
of indiscreet anger should be sufficient to injure a cause or 
damage a situation, “ the Lord ” could be calculated on with 
a perfect 'security. McGloin understood this thoroughly; 


230 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


nor was it matter of surprise to him that a verbal reply of 
“There is no answer’’ was returned to his note; while the 
old servant, instead of stopping the ass-cart as usual for the 
weekly supply of groceries at McGloin’s, repaired to a small 
shop over the way, where colonial products were rudely 
jostled out of their proper places by coils of rope, sacks of 
rapeseed, glue, glass, and leather, amid w^hich the proprietor 
felt far more at home than amidst mixed pickles and mocha. 

]\Ir. McGloin, however, had counted the cost of his policy; 
he knew well that for the ambition to succeed his Lordship 
as chief of the club, he should have to pay by the loss of 
the Kilgobbin custom ; and whether it was that the great- 
ness in prospect was too tempting to resist, or that the 
sacrifice was smaller than it might have seemed, he was 
prepared to risk the venture. 

The meeting was in so far a success that it was fully 
attended. Such a flock of “Goats” had not been seen by 
them since the memory of man, nor was the unanimity less 
remarkable than the number; and every paragraph of Mr. 
McGloiu’s speech was hailed with vociferous cheers and 
applause, the sentiment of the assembly being evidently 
highly national, and the feeling that the shame which the 
Lord of Kilgobbin had brought down upon their county was 
a disgrace that attached personally to each man there pres- 
ent; and that if now their once happy and peaceful district 
was to be proclaimed under some tyranny of English law, 
or, worse still, made a mark for the insult and sarcasm of 
the “Times ” newspaper, they owed the disaster and the 
shame to no other than Mathew Kearney himself. 

“I will now conclude with a resolution,” said McGloin, 
who, having filled the measure of allegation, proceeded to 
the application. “I shall move that it is the sentiment of 
this meeting that Lord Kilgobbin be called on to disavow, 
in the newspapers, the whole narrative which has been circu- 
lated of the attack on his house; that he declare openly that 
the supposed incident was a mistake caused by the timorous 
fears of his household, during his own absence from home; 
terrors aggravated by the unwarrantable anxiety of an Eng- 
lish visitor, whose ignorance of Ireland had worked upon an 
excited imagination; and that a copy of the resolution be 


HOW THE “GOATS” KEVOLTED. 


237 


presented to his Lordship, either in letter or by a deputa- 
tion, as the meeting shall decide.” 

While the discussion was proceeding as to the mode in 
which this bold resolution should be most becomingly 
brought under Lord Kilgobbin’s notice, a messenger on 
horseback arrived with a letter for Mr. McGloin. The 
bearer was in the Kilgobbin livery; and a massive seal, with 
the noble Lord’s arms, attested the despatch to be from 
himself. 

“Shall I put the resolution to the vote, or read this letter 
first, gentlemen ? ” said the chairman. 

“Read I read!” was the cry, and he broke the seal. It 
ran thus: — 

“ 1\1r. jMcGloin, — Will you please to inform the members of 
the ‘ Goat Club ’ at Moate, that I retire from the presidency, and 
cease to be a member of that society ? I was vain enoug;h to be- 
lieve at one time that the humanizino; element of even one gentleman 
in the vulgar circle of a little obscure town might have elevated the 
tone of manners and the spirit of social intercourse. I have lived to 
discover my great mistake, and that the leadership of a man like 
yourself is far more likelv to suit the instincts and chime in with 
the sentiments of such a body. 

“ Your obedient and faithful servant, 

“ Kilgobbin.” 

The cry which followed the reading of this document can 
only be described as a howl. It was like the enraged roar 
of wild animals, rather than the union of human voices; and 
it was not till after a considerable interval that McGloin 
could obtain a hearing. He spoke with great vigor and 
fluency. He denounced the letter as an outrage which 
should be proclaimed from one end of hiurope to the other; 
that it was not their town, or their club, or themselves had 
been insulted, but Ireland! that this mock Lord (cheers) 
this sham Viscount (greater cheers), this Brummagem 
peer, whose nobilit}^ their native courtesy and natural 
urbanity had so long deigned to accept as real, should now 
be taught that his pretensions only existed on sufferance, 
and had no claim be^mnd the polite condescension of men 
whom it was no stretch of imagination to call the equals of 


238 


LOKU KILGOEBIX. 


Mathew Kearney. The cries that received this were almost 
deafening, and lasted for some minutes. 

“ Send the ould humbug his picture there,” cried a voice 
from the crowd, and the sentiment was backed by a roar of 
voices ; and it was at once decreed the portrait should 
accompany the letter which the indignant “Goats” now 
commissioned their chairman to compose. 

That same evening saw the gold-framed picture on its way 
to Kilgobbin Castle, with an ample-looking document, whose 
contents we have no curiosity to transcribe, — nor, indeed, 
is the whole incident one which we should have cared to 
obtrude upon our readers, save as a feeble . illustration of 
the way in which the smaller rills of public opinion swell 
the great streams of life, and how the little events of 
existence serve now as impulses, now obstacles to the larger 
interests that sway fortune. So long as Mathew Kearney 
drank his punch at the “ Blue Goat” he was a patriot and 
a nationalist ; but when he quarrelled with his flock, he 
renounced his Irishry, and came out a Whig, 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR PLEASURE. 

When Dick Kearney waited on Cecil Walpole at his quarters 
in the Castle, he was somewhat surprised to find that gentle- 
man more reserved in manner, and in general more distant, 
than when he had seen him as his father’s guest. 

Though he extended two fingers of his hand on entering, 
and begged him to be seated, Walpole did not take a chair 
himself, but stood with his back to the fire, — the showy 
skirts of a very gorgeous dressing-gown displayed over his 
arms, — where he looked like some enormous bird exulting 
in the full effulgence of his bright plumage. 

“You got my note, Mr. Kearney?” began he, almost 
before the other had sat down, with the air of a man whose 
time was too precious for mere politeness. 

“It is the reason of my present visit,” said Dick, dryly. 

“ Just so. His Excellency instructed me to ascertain in 
what shape most acceptable to your family he might show 
the sense entertained by the Government of that gallant 
defence of Kilgobbin ; and believing that the best way to 
meet a man’s wishes is first of all to learn what the wishes 
are, I wrote you the few lines of yesterday.” 

“ I suspect there must be a mistake somewhere,” began 
Kearney, with difficulty. “At least, I intimated to Atlee 
the shape in which the Viceroy’s favor would be most agree- 
able to us, and I came here prepared to find you equally 
informed on the matter.” 

“Ah, indeed! I know nothing, — positively nothing. 
Atlee telegraphed me : * See Kearney, and hear what he has 
to say. I write by post. — Atlee.’ There’s the whole 
of it.” 


240 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ And the letter — ” 

“The letter is there. It came by the late mail, and I 
have not opened it.” 

“Would it not be better to glance over it now?” said 
Dick, mildly. 

“Not if you can give me the substance by word of 
mouth. Time, they tell us, is money ; and as I have got 
very little of either, I am obliged to be parsimonious. What 
is it you want? I mean the sort of thing we could help you 
to obtain. I see,” said he, smiling, “you had rather I 
should read Atlee’s letter. Well, here goes.” He broke 
the envelope, and began ; — 

“ ‘ ]\1y dear Mr. Walpole, — I hoped by this time to have 
had a report to make you of what I had done, heard, seen, and 
imagined since my arrival, and yet here I am now towards the close 
of my second week, and I have nothing to tell ; and beyond a sort 
of confused sense of being immensely delighted witli my mode of life, 
I am totallv unconscious of the flight of time. 

“ ‘ His Excellency received me once for ten minutes, and later on, 
after some days, for half an hour; for he is confined to bed with 
gout, and forbidden by his doctor all mental labor. lie was kind 
and courteous to a degree, hoped I should endeavor to make myself 
at home, — giving orders at the same time that my dinner should be 
served at my own hour, and the stables placed at my disposal for 
riding or driving. For occupation, he suggested I should see what 
the newspapers w^ere saying, and make a note or two if anything 
struck me as remarkable. 

“‘Lady iUaude is charming — and I use the epithet in all the 
significance of its sorcery. She conveys to me each morning his 
Excellency’s instructions for my day’s work ; and it is only by a 
mighty effort 1 can tear myself from the magic thrill of her voice, 
and the captivation of her manner, to follow what I have to rej)ly to, 
investigate, and remark on. 

“ ‘ I meet her each day at luncheon, and she says she will join 
me “ some day at dinner.” When that glorious occasion arrives, I 
shall call it the event of my life, for her mere presence stimulates me 
to such effort in conversation that I feel in the very lassitude after- 
wards what a strain my faculties have undergone.’ ” 

“What an insufferable coxcomb, and an idiot, to boot!” 
cried Walpole. “ I could not do him a more spiteful turn 
than to tell my cousin of her conquest. There is another 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR PLEASURE. 


241 


page, I see, of the same sort. But here you are, — this is all 
about you : I ’ll read it. ‘In re Kearney. The Irish are 
always logical ; aud as Miss Kearney once shot some of her 
countrymen, when on a mission they deemed national, her 
brother opines that he ought to represent the principles thus 
involved in Parliament.’” 

“Is this the way in which he states my claims! ” broke 
in Dick, with ill-suppressed passion. 

“ Bear in mind, Mr. Kearney, this jest, and a very poor 
one it is, was meant for me alone. The communication is 
essentially private, and it is only through my indiscretion 
you know anything of it whatever.” 

“I am not aware that any confidence should entitle him 
to write such an impertinence.” 

“In that case I shall read no more,” said AYalpole, as he 
slowly refolded the letter. “The fault is all on my side, 
Mr. Kearney,” he continued; “but I own I thought you 
knew your friend so thoroughly that extravagance on his 
part could have neither astonished nor provoked you.” 
“You are perfectly right, Mr. Walpole; I apologize for 
my impatience. It was, perhaps, in hearing his words read 
aloud by another that I forgot myself, and if you will kindly 
continue the reading, I will promise to behave more suitably 
in future.” 

AYalpole re-opened the letter, but, whether indisposed to 
trust the pledge thus given or to prolong the interview, ran 
his eyes over one side and then turned to the last page. “ I 
see,” said he, “ he augurs ill as to your chances of success ; he 
opines that you have not well calculated the great cost of the 
venture, and that in all probability it has been suggested by 
some friend of questionable discretion. ‘At all events,’” 
and here he read aloud, — “ ‘at all events, his Excellency 
says, “ We should like to mark the Kilgobbin affair by some 
show of approbation ; and though supporting young K. in a 
contest for his county is a ‘ higher figure ’ than we meant to 
pay, see him, and hear what he has to say of his prospects, — 
what he can do to obtain a seat, and what he will do if 
he gets one. AVe need not caution him against ” ’ — hum, 
hum, hum 1 ” muttered he, slurring over the words, and 
endeavoring to pass on to something else. 

1C) 


242 


LOKD KILGOBBIX. 


“ May I ask against what I am supposed to be so 
secure ? ” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Avery small impertinence, but 
which Mr. Atlee found irresistible.” 

“ Pray let me hear it. It shall not irritate me.” 

“ He says, ‘ There will be no more a fear of bribery in 
your case than of a debauch at Father Mathew’s.’ ” 

“ He is right there,” said Kearney, with great temper. 
“ The only difference is that our forbearance will be founded 
on something stronger than a pledge.” 

Walpole looked at the speaker, and was evidently struck 
by the calm command he had displayed of his passion. 

“ If we could forget Joe Atlee for a few minutes, Mr. 
Walpole, we might possibly gain something. I, at least, 
would be glad to know how far I might count on the 
Government aid in my project.” 

“Ah, you want to — in fact, you would like that we 
should give you something like a regular — eli ? — that is 
to say, that you could declare to certain people — naturally 
enough, I admit; but here is how we are, Kearney. Of 
course what I say now is literally between ourselves, and 
strictly confidential.” 

“ I shall so understand it,” said the other, gravely. 

“Well, now, here it is. The Irish vote, as the Yankees 
would call it, is of undoubted value to us, but it is con- 
foundedly dear ! With Paul Cullen on one side and Fenian- 
ism on the other, we have no peace. Time was when you 
all pulled the one wa}^, and a sop to the Pope pleased you 
all. Now that will suffice no longer. The ‘ Sovereign Pon- 
tiff dodge ’ is the surest of all wa3"s to offend tlie nationals ; 
so that, in reality, what we want in the House is a number 
of liberal Irishmen who will trust the Government to do as 
much for the Catholic Church as English l)igotr3" will permit, 
and as much for tlie Irish peasant as will not endanger the 
rights ‘of property over the Channel.” 

“ There ’s a wide field there, certain!}’,” said Dick, smiling. 
“Is there not?” cried the other, exultingly. “ Not only 
does it bowl over the Established Clmrch and Protestant 
ascendency, but it inverts the position of landlord and 
tenant. To unsettle everything in Ireland, so that anybody 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR PLEASURE. 

« 


243 


might hope to be any thing, or to own heaven knows what, 
— to legalize gambling for existence to a people who delight 
in high play, and yet not involve us in a civil war, — was 
a grand policy, Kearney, a very grand policy. Not that I 
expect a young, ardent spirit like yourself, fresh from col- 
lege ambitions and high-flown hopes, will take this view.” 
Dick only smiled, and shook his head. 

“ Just so,” resumed Walpole. “I could not expect you 
to like this programme, and I know already all that you 
allege against it; but, as B. says, Kearney, the man who 
rules Ireland must know how to take command of a ship in 
a state of mutiny, and yet never suppress the revolt. There ’s 
the problem, — as much discipline as }mu can, as much in- 
discipline as you can bear. The brutal old Tories used to 
master the crew, and hang the ringleaders ; and for that 
matter, they might have hanged the whole ship’s company. 
We know better, Kearney ; and we have so confused and 
addled them by our policy, that, if a fellow w^ere to strike 
his captain, he would never be quite sure whether he was to 
be strung up at the gangway or made a petty ofllcer. Do 
you see it now ? ” 

“ I can scarcely say that I do see it, — I mean, that I see 
it as yo-a do.” 

“I scarcely could hope that you should, or, at least, that 
you should do so at once ; but now, as to this seat for King s 
County, I believe we have already found our man. I ’ll not 
be sure, nor will I ask you to regard the matter as fixed on, 
but I suspect we are in relations — you know what I mean 

— with an old supporter, who has been beaten half a dozen 
times in our interest, but is coming up once more. I ’ll 
ascertain about this positively, and let you know. And 
then,” — here he drew breath freely, and talked more at ease, 

— “if we should find our hands free, and that we see our 
way clearly to support you, what assurance could you give 
us that 3^011 would go through with the contest, and fight the 
battle out?” 

“ I believe, if I engage in the struggle, I shall continue to 
the end,” said Dick, half doggedly. 

“ Your personal pluck and determination I do not question 
for a moment. Now, let us see,” — here he seemed to rumi- 


244 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


nate for some seconds, and looked like one debating a matter 
with himself. “ Yes,” cried he, at last, “ I believe that will 
be the best way. I am sure it will. When do you go back, 
Mr. Kearney, — to Kilgobbin, I mean?” 

“ My intention was to go down the day after to-morrow.” 

“ That will be Friday. Let us see, what is Friday? 
Friday is the 15th, is it not? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Friday,” muttered the other, — “ Frida}^? There ’s the 
Education Board, and the Harbor Commissioners, and some- 
thing else at — to be sure, a visit to the Popish schools with 
Dean O’Mahony. You couldn’t make it Saturday, could 
you ? ” 

“Not conveniently. I had already arranged a plan for 
Saturday. But why should I delay here, — to wLat end ? ” 
“Only that, if you could say Saturday, I would like to 
go down with you.” 

From the mode in which he said these words, it was clear 
that he looked for an almost rapturous acceptance of his 
gracious proposal ; but Dick did not regard the project 
in that light, nor was he overjoyed in the least at the 
proposal. 

“ I mean,” said Walpole, hastening to relieve the awk- 
wardness of silence, ; — “I mean that I could talk over this 
affair with your father in a practical business fashion, that 
you could scarcely enter into. Still, if Saturday could not 
be managed, I ’ll try if I could not run down with you on 
Friday. Only for a day, remember. I must return by the 
evening train. We shall arrive by what hour? ” 

“ By breakfast-time,” said Dick, but still not over- 
gracioLisly. 

“Nothing could be better; that will give us a long day, 
and I should like a full discussion with your father. You ’ll 
manage to send me on to — what ’s the name ? ” 

“ Moate.” 

“ Moate. Yes; that’s the place. The up-train leaves at 
midnight, I remember. Now that ’s all settled. You ’ll take 
me up then here on Friday morning, Kearney, on your way 
to the station, and meanwhile I ’ll set to work, and put off 
these deputations and circulars till Saturday, when, I remem- 


f 


245 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR RLEASURE. 

ber, I have a dinner with the Provost. Is there anything 
more to be thought of? ” 

“ I believe not,” muttered Dick, still sullenly. 

“ By-by, then, till Friday morning,” said he, as he turned 
towards his desk, and began arranging a mass of papers 
before him. 

“ Here’s a jolly mess with a vengeance,” muttered Kear- 
ney, as he descended the stair. “The Viceroy’s private 
secretary to be domesticated with a ‘ Head-Centre ’ and an 
escaped convict. There ’s not even the doubtful comfort 
of being able to make my family assist me through the 
difficulty. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 

Among the articles of that wardrobe of Cecil Walpole’s of 
which Atlee had possessed himself so unceremoniously, 
there was a very gorgeous blue dress-coat, with the royal 
button and a lining of sky-blue silk, which formed the 
appropriate costume of the gentlemen of the viceregal 
household. This, with a waistcoat to match, Atlee had 
carried off with him in the indiscriminating haste of a last 
moment, and although thoroughly understanding that he 
could not avail himself of a costume so distinctively the 
mark of a condition, yet, by one of the contrarieties of 
his strange nature, in which the desire for an assumption 
of any kind was a passion, he had tried on that coat 
fully a dozen times, and while admiring how well it became 
him, and how perfectly it seemed to suit his face and 
figure, he had dramatized to himself the part of an aide- 
de-camp in waiting, rehearsing the little speeches in which 
he presented this or that imaginary person to his Excellency, 
and coining the small money of epigram in which he related 
the news of the day. 

“ How I should cut out those dreary subalterns with their 
mess-room drolleries, how I should shame those tiresome cor- 
nets, whose only glitter is on their sabretaches ! ” muttered 
he, as he surve3^ed himself in his courtly attire. “It is all 
nonsense to say that the dress a man wears can only impress 
the surrounders. It is on himself — on his own nature and 
temper, his mind, his faculties, his veiy ambition — there is 
a transformation effected ; and I, Joe Atlee, feel mj^self, as I 
move about in this costume, a very different man from that 
humble creature in graj" tweed, whose ver^^ coat reminds him 
he is a ^ cad,’ and who has but to look in the glass to read his 
condition.” 


PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 


247 


On the morning that he learned that Lady Maude would 
join him that day at dinner, Atlee conceived tlie idea of 
appearing in this costume. It was not only that she knew 
nothing of the Irish court and its habits, but she made an 
almost ostentatious show of her indifference to all about it ; 
and in the few questions she asked, the tone of interrogation 
might have suited Africa as much as Ireland. It was true, 
she was evidently puzzled to know what place or condition 
Atlee occupied ; his name was not familiar to her, and yet he 
seemed to know everything and everybody, enjoyed a large 
share of his Excellency’s confidence, and appeared conversant 
with every detail placed before him. 

That she would not directly ask him what place he occu- 
pied in the household he well knew, and he felt at the 
same time what a standing and position that costume 
would give him, what self-confidence and ease it would 
also confer, and how for once in his life, free from the 
necessity of asserting a station, he could devote all his 
energies to the exercise of agreeability and those resources 
of small-talk in which he knew he was a master. 

Besides all this, it was to be his last day at the Castle, — 
he was to start the next morning for Constantinople, with all 
instructions regarding the spy Speridionides, and he desired 
to make a favorable impression on Lady Maude before 
he left. Though intensely, even absurdly vain, Atlee was 
one of those men who are so eager for success in life that 
they are ever on the watch lest any weakness of disposition 
or temper should serve to compromise their chances, and in 
this way he was led to distrust what he would in liis puppyism 
have liked to have thought a favorable effect produced by 
him on her Ladyship. She was intensel}^ cold in manner, 
and yet he had made her more than once listen to him with 
interest. She rarely smiled, and he had made her actually 
laugh. Her apathy appeared complete, and yet he had so 
piqued her curiosity that she could not forbear a question. 

Acting as her uncle’s secretary, and in constant commu- 
nication with him, it was her affectation to imagine herself a 
political character, and she did not scruple to avow the hearty 
contempt she felt for the usual occupation of women’s lives. 
Atlee’s knowledge therefore actually amazed her ; his hardi- 


248 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


hood, which never forsook him, enabled him to give her the 
most positive assurances on anything he spoke ; and as he 
had already fathomed the chief prejudices of his Excellency, 
and knew exactly where and to what his political wishes 
tended, she heard nothing from her uncle but expressions of 
admiration for the just views, the clear and definite ideas, 
and the consummate skill with w'hich that “young fellow” 
distinguished himself. 

“ We shall have him in the House one of these days,” 
he would say ; ‘ ‘ and I am much mistaken if he will not 
make a remarkable figure there.” 

When Lady Maude sailed proudly into the library before 
dinner, Atlee was actually stunned by amazement at her 
beauty. Though not m actual evening dress, her costume 
was that sort of demi-toilette compromise wLich occasion- 
ally is most becoming ; and the tasteful lappet of Brussels 
lace, which, interwoven with her hair, fell down on either 
side so as to frame her face, softened its expression to a 
degree of loveliness he was not prepared for. 

It was her pleasure — her caprice, perhaps — to be on 
this occasion unusually amiable and agreeable. Except by 
a sort of quiet dignity, there was no coldness, and she 
spoke of her uncle’s health and hopes just as she might 
have discussed them with an old friend of the house. 

When the butler flung wide the folding-doors into the 
dining-room and announced dinner, she was about to move 
on, when she suddenly stopped, and said, with a faint smile, 
“Will you give me your arm?” Very simple words, and 
commonplace too, but enough to throw Atlee’s whole nature 
into a convulsion of delight. And as he walked at her 
side it was in the very ecstasy of pride and exultation. 

Dinner passed off with the decorous solemnity of that 
meal, at which the most emphatic utterances were the but- 
ler’s “ Marcobrunner ” or “ Johannisberg.” The guests, in- 
deed, spoke little, and the strangeness of their situation 
rather disposed to thought than conversation. 

“You are going to Constantinople to-morrow, Mr. 
Atlee, my uncle tells me,” said she, after a longer silence 
than usual. 

“Tes; his Excellency has charged me with a message, 


PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 


249 


of which I hope to acquit myself well, though I own to 
my misgivings about it now.” 

“Aou are too ditlldeut, perhaps, of your powers,” said 
she ; and there was a faint curl of the lip that made the 
words sound equivocally. 

“I do not know if great modesty be amongst mv fail- 
ings,” said he, laughingly. “My friends would say not.” 

“ A ou mean, perhaps, that you are not without ambi- 
tions? ” 

“That is true. I confess to very bold ones.” And as 
he spoke he stole a glance towards her ; but her pale face 
never changed. 

“I wish, before you had gone, that you had settled that 
stupid muddle about the attack on — I forget the place.” 

“ Kilgobbin? ” 

“ A"es, Kil-gobbin — horrid name ! — for the Premier still 
persists in thinking there was something in it, and worry- 
ing my uncle for explanations ; and as somebody is to ask 
something when Parliament meets, it would be as well to 
have a letter to read to the House.” 

“In what sense, pray?” asked Atlee, mildly. 

“Disavowing all; stating the story had no foundation: 
that there was no attack, no resistance, no member of the 
viceregal household present at any time.” 

“That would be going too far; for then we should next 
have to deny Walpole’s broken arm and his long confine- 
ment to house.” 

“ A^'ou may serve coffee in a quarter of an hour, Marcom,” 
said she, dismissing the butler ; and then, as he left the 
room, “ And you tell me seriously there was a broken 
arm in this case ? ” 

“I can hide nothing from you. though I have taken an 
oath to silence,” said he, with an energy that seemed to 
defy repression. “I will tell you everything, though it’s 
little short of a perjury, only premising this much, that I 
know nothing from Walpole himself.” 

AYith this much of preface, he went on to describe Wal- 
pole’s visit to Kilgobbin as one of those adventurous ex- 
ploits which young Englishmen fancy they have a sort of 
right to perform in the less civilized country. “ He ima- 


250 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


giiiecl, I have no doubt,” said he, “ that he was studying the 
condition of Ireland, and investigating the land question, 
when he carried on a fierce flirtation with a ijretty Irish 
girl.” 

“And there was a flirtation?” 

“Yes, but nothing more. Nothing really serious at any 
time. So far he behaved frankly and well, for even at the 
outset of the affair he owned to — a what shall I call it? 
— an entanglement was, I believe, his own word, — an en- 
tanglement in England — ” 

“Did he not state more of this entanglement, — with 
whom it was, or how, or where?” 

“ I should think not. At all events, they who told me 
knew nothing of these details. They only knew, as he 
said, that he was in a certain sense tied up, and that till 
fate unbound him he was a prisoner.” 

“Poor fellow! it ivas hard.” 

“So he said, and so they believed him. Not that I 
myself believe he was ever seriously in love with the Irish 
girl.” 

“And whv not? ” 

“I may be wrong in my reading of him; but my impres- 
sion is that he regards marriage as one of those solemn 
events which should contribute to a man’s worldly fortune. 
Now, an Irish connection could scarcely be the road to 
this.” 

“AVhat an ungallant admission! ” said she, with a smile. 

I hope ]\Ir. alpole is not of your mind.” After a pause 
she said, “And how was it that in your intimacy he told 
you nothing of this ? ” 

He shook his head in dissent. 

“Not even of the ‘ entanglement ’ ? ” 

“Not even of that. He would speak freely enough of his 
‘egregious blunder,’ as he called it, in quitting his career 
and coming to Ireland ; that it was a gross mistake for any 
man to take up Irish politics as a line in life; that they were 
puzzles in the present and led to nothing, in the future, and, 
in fact, that he wished himself back again in Italy every 
day he lived.” 

“Was there any ‘ entanglement ’ there also?” 


PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 


251 


“I cannot say. On these he made me no confidences.” 

“Coffee, my Lady!” said the butler, entering at this 
moment. Nor was Atlee grieved at the interruption. 

“I am enough of a Turk,” said she, laughingly, “to like 
that muddy, strong coffee they give you in the East, and 
where the very smallness of the cups suggests its strength. 
You, I know, are impatient for your cigarette, Mr. Atlee, 
and I am about to liberate you.” While Atlee was mutter- 
ing his assurances of how much he prized her presence, she 
broke in: “Besides, I promised my uncle a visit before tea- 
time; and as I shall not see you again, I will wish you 
now a pleasant journey and a safe return.” 

“Wish me success in my expedition,” said he, eagerly. 

“Yes, 1 will wish that also. One word more. I am very 
short-sighted, as you may see, but you w'ear a ring of 
great beauty. May I look at it?” 

“It is pretty, certaiul3^ It was a present Walpole made 
me. I am not sure that there is not a story attached to it, 
though I don’t know it.” 

“Perhaps it may be linked with the ‘ entanglement,’ ” said 
she, laughing softly. 

“For aught I know, so it may. Do you admire it? ” 

“Immensely,” said she, as she held it to the light. 

“You can add immensely to its value if you will,” said 
he, diffidently. 

“In what way? ” 

“By keeping it. Lady Maude,” said he; and for once his 
cheek colored with the shame of his own boldness. 

“May I purchase it with one of my own? Will you have 
this, or this?” said she, hurriedly. 

‘‘Anything that once was yours,” said he, in a mere 
whisper. 

“Good-bve, Mr. Atlee.” 

And he was alone! 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


AT TEA-TIME. 


The family at Kilgobbiii Castle were seated at tea when 
Dick Kearney’s telegram arrived. It bore the address, 
“Lord Kilgobbin,” and ran thus: “Walpole wishes to speak 
with you, and will come down with me on Friday; his stay 
cannot be beyond one day. — Richard Kearney.” 

“What can he want with me?” cried Kearney, as he 
tossed over the despatch to his daughter. “If he wants to 
talk over the election, I could tell him per post that I think 
it a folly and an absurdity. Indeed, if he is not coming to 
propose for either my niece or my daughter, he might spare 
himself the journey.” 

“Who is to say that such is not his intention, papa?” 
said Kate, merrily. “Old Catty had a dream about a pie- 
bald horse and a haystack on fire, and something about a 
creel of duck eggs ; and I trust that every educated person 
knows what they mean.” 

“I do not,” cried Nina, boldly. 

“Marriage, my dear. One is marriage by special license, 
with a bishop or a dean to tie the knot; another is a run- 
away match. I forget what the eggs signify.” 

“An unbroken engagement,” interposed Donogan, gravely, 
“so long as none of them are smashed.” 

“On the whole, then, it is very promising tidings,” 
said Kate. 

“It may be easy to be more promising than the election,” 
said the old man. 

“I ’m not flattered, uncle, to hear that I am easier to win 
than a seat in Parliament.” 

“Tiiat does not imply you are not worth a great deal 
more,” said Kearney, with an air of gallantry. “I know 


AT TEA-TIME. 


253 


if I was a young fellow which I ’d strive most for. Eh, Mr. 
Daniel? I see you agree with me.” 

Donogaids face, slightly flushed before, became now 
crimson as he sipped his tea in confusion, unable to utter 
a word. 

“And so,” resumed Kearney, “he ’ll only give us a day to 
make up our minds! It’s lucky, girls, that you have the 
telegram there to tell you what’s coming.” 

“ It would have been more piquant, papa, if he had made 
his message sa^q ‘ 1 propose for Nina. Keply by wire.’ ” 

“Or, ‘May I marry your daughter ?’ ” chimed in Nina, 
quickly. 

“There it is, now,” broke in Kearney, laughing, “you’re 
fighting for him already! Take my word for it, Mr. Daniel, 
there ’s no so sure way to get a girl for a wife, as to make 
her believe there ’s another only waiting to be asked. It ’s 
the threat of the opposition coach on the road keeps down 
the fares.” 

“Papa is all wrong,” said Kate. “There is no such con- 
ceivable pleasure as saying No to a man that another 
woman is ready to accept. It is about the most refined sort 
of self-flattery imaginable.” 

“Not to say that men are utterly ignorant of that free- 
masonry among women which gives us all an interest in the 
man who marries one of us,” said Nina. “It is only your 
confirmed old bachelor that we all ao;ree in detesting.” 

“Faith, I give you up altogether. You ’re a puzzle clean 
beyond me,” said Kearney, with a sigh. 

“I think it is Balzac tells us,” said Donogan, “that 
women and politics are the only two exciting pursuits in 
life; for you never can tell where either of them will lead 
you.” 

“ And who is Balzac? ” asked Kearney. 

“Oh, uncle, don’t let me hear you ask who is the greatest 
novelist that ever lived.” 

“Faith, my dear, except ‘Tristram Shandy’ and ‘Tom 
Jones,’ and maybe ‘ Robinson Crusoe,’ — if that be a novel, 
— my experience goes a short way. When I am not read- 
ing what’s useful, — as in the ‘Farmer’s Chronicle’ or 
‘ Purcell’s Rotation of Crops,’ — I like the ‘ Accidents ’ in 


254 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


the newspapers, where they give you the name of the gentle- 
man that was smashed in the train, and tell you how his 
wife was within ten days of her third confinement ; how it 
was only last week he got a step as a clerk in Somerset 
House. Have n’t you more materials for a sensation novel 
there than any of your three-volume fellows will give 
you ? ” 

“The times we are living in give most of us excitement 
enough,” said Douogan. “The man who wants to gamble 
for life itself need not be balked now.” 

“You mean that a man can take a shot at an emperor?” 
said Kearney, inquiringly. 

“No, not that exactly; though there are stakes of that 
kind some men would not shrink from. What are called 
‘ arms of precision ’ have had a great influence on modern 
politics. When there’s no time for a plebiscite, there’s 
always time for a pistol.” 

“Bad morality, Mr. Daniel,” said Kearne^q gravely. 

“ I suspect we do not fairly measure what Mr. Daniel 
says,” broke in Kate. “He may mean to indicate a revolu- 
tion, and not justify it.” 

“I mean both! ” said Douogan. “I mean that the mere 
permission to live under a bad government is too high a 
price to pay for life at all. I’d rather go ‘ down into the 
streets,’ as they call it, and have it out, than I ’d drudge on, 
dogged by policemen, and sent to jail on suspicion.” 

“He is right,” cried Nina. “If I were a man, I ’d think 
as he does.” 

“Then I ’m very glad you ’re not,” said Kearney; 
“though, for the matter of rebellion, I believe you would 
be a more dangerous Fenian as you are. Am I ri^ht, Mr. 
Daniel?” 

“I am disposed to say 3^011 are, sir,” was his mild reply. 

“Ain’t we important people this evening!” cried Kear- 
ney, as the servant entered with another telegram. “ This 
is for you, Mr. Daniel. 1 hope we ’re to hear that the 
Cabinet wants you in Downing Street.” 

“I d rather it did not,” said he, with a very peculiar 
smile, which did not escape Kate’s keen glance across the 
table, as he said, “May I read my despatch?” 


AT TEA-TIME. 


255 


“By all means,” said Kearney; while, to leave him more 
undisturbed, he turned to Nina, with some quizzical remark 
about her turn for the telegraph coming next. “What news 
would you wish it should bring you, Nina? ” asked he. 

“I scarcely know. I have so many things to wish for, I 
should be puzzled which to place first.” 

“Should you like to be Queen of Greece?” asked Kate. 
“First tell me if there is to be a King, and who is he?” 
“Maybe it’s Mr. Daniel, there; for I see he has gone off 
in a great hurry to say he accepts the crown.” 

“What should you ask for, Kate,” cried Nina, “if for 
tune were civil enough to give you a chance ? ” 

“Two days’ rain for my turnips,” said Kate, quickly. 
“I don’t remember wishing for anything so much in all my 
life.” 

“Your turnips! ” cried Nina, contemptuously. 

“Why not? If you were a queen, would you not have to 
think of those who depended on you for support and protec- 
tion? And how should I forget my poor heifers and my 
calves, — calves of very tender years some of them, — and 
all with as great desire to fatten themselves as any of us 
have to do what will as probably lead to our destruction ? ” 
“You ’re not going to have the rain, anyhow,” said Kear- 
ney; “and you’ll not be sorry, Nina, for you wanted a 
fine day to finish your sketch of Croghan Castle.” 

“Oh, by the way, has old Bob recovered from his lame- 
ness yet, to be fit to be driven? ” 

“Ask Kitty there; she can tell you, perhaps.” 

“Well, 1 don’t think I ’d harness him yet. The smith 
has pinched him in the off fore-foot, and he goes tender 
still.” 

“So do I when I go afoot, for I hate it,” cried Nina; 
“and I w'ant a day in the open air, and I w'ant to finish my 
old Castle of Croghan. And last of all,” whispered she in 
Kate’s ear, “I want to show my distinguished friend Mr. 
Walpole that the prospect of a visit from him does not in- 
duce me to keep the house. So that, from all the v ants put 
together, I shall take an early breakfast, and stait to- 
morrow for Cruhan, — is not that the name of the little 
village in the bog ? ” 


256 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“That ’s Miss Betty’s own townland ; though I don’t know 
she ’s much the richer of her tenants,” said Kearney, laugh- 
ing. “The oldest inhabitants never remember a rent-day.” 
“What a happy set of people! ” 

“Just the reverse. You never saw misery till you saw 
them. There is not a cabin lit for a human being, nor is 
there one creature in the place with enough rags to cover 
him.” 

“They were very civil as I drove through. I remember 
how a little basket had fallen out, and a girl followed me 
ten miles of the road to restore it,” said Nina. 

“That they would; and if it were a purse of gold they ’d 
have done the same,” cried Kate. 

“Won’t you say that they ’d shoot you for half-a-crowu, 
though ? ” said Kearney, “ and that the worst ‘ AYhiteboys ’ 
of Ireland come out of the same village? ” 

“I do like a people so unlike all the rest of the world,” 
cried Nina; “whose motives none can guess at, none fore- 
cast. I’ll go there to-morrow.” 

These words were said as Daniel had just re-entered the 
room, and he stopped and asked, “Where to?” 

“To a Whiteboy village called Cruhan, some ten miles 
off, close to an old castle I have been sketchino;.” 

“Do you mean to go there to-morrow?” asked he, half 
carelessly; but, not waiting for her answer, and as if fully 
preoccupied, he turned and left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


A DRIVE AT SUNRISE. 

The little basket-carriage in which Nina made her excur- 
sions, and which courtesy called a phaeton, would scarcely 
have been taken as a model at Long Acre. A massive old 
wicker-cradle constituted the body, which, from a slight in- 
equality in the wheels, had got an uncomfortable “lurch to 
port,” while the rumble was supplied by a narrow shelf, on 
which her foot-page sat dos-a~dos to herself, — a position 
not rendered more dignified by his invariable habit of play- 
ing pitch-and-toss with himself, as a means of distraction 
in travel. 

Except Bob, the sturdy little pony in the shafts, nothing 
could be less schooled or disciplined than Larry himself. 
At sight of a party at marbles or hop-scotch, he was sure to 
desert his post, trusting to short cuts and speed to catch up 
his mistress later on. 

As for Bob, a tuft of clover or fresh grass on the road- 
side were temptations to the full as great to him, and no 
amount of whipping could induce him to continue his road 
leavino; these dainties untasted. As in Mr. Gill’s time he 
had carried that important personage, he had contracted the 
habit of stopping at every cabin by the way, giving to each 
halt the amount of time he believed the colloquy should 
have occupied, and then, without any admonition, resuming 
his journey. In fact, as an index to the refractory tenants 
on the estate, his mode of progression with its interruptions 
might have been employed, and the sturdy fashion in which 
he would “ draw up ” at certain doors might be taken as the 
forerunner of an ejectment. 

The blessed change by which the county saw the beast now 
driven by a beautiful young lady, instead of bestrode by an 

17 


258 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


inimical bailiff, added to a popularity which Ireland in her 
poorest and darkest hour always accords to beauty; and 
they, indeed, who trace points of resemblance between two 
distant peoples, have not failed to remark that the Irish, 
like the Italians, invariably refer all female loveliness to 
that type of surpassing excellence, the Madonna. 

Nina had too much of the South in her blood not to like 
the heartfelt, outspoken admiration which greeted her as she 
went; and the “God bless you, but you are a lovely cray- 
ture!.” delighted, while it amused her in the way the quali- 
fication was expressed. 

It was soon after sunrise on this Friday morning that she 
drove down the approach, and made her way across the bog 
towards Cruhan. Though pretending to her uncle to be only 
eager to finish her sketch of Croghan Castle, her journey 
was really prompted by very different considerations. By 
Dick’s telegram she learned that Walpole was to arrive that 
day at Kilgobbiu ; and as his stay could not be prolonged 
beyond the evening, she secretl}" determined she would 
absent herself so much as she could from home, — only 
returning to a late dinner, — and thus show her distin- 
guished friend how cheaply she held the occasion of his 
visit, and what value she attached to the pleasure of seeing 
him at the castle. 

She knew Walpole thoroughly ; she understood the work- 
ing of such a nature to perfection, and she could calculate 
to a nicety the mortification, and even anger, such a man 
would experience at being thus slighted. “These men,” 
thought she, “ only feel for what is done to them before 
the world; it is the insult that is passed upon them in pub- 
lic, the souffiet that is given in the street, that alone can 
wound them to the quick. ” A woman may grow tired of 
their attentions, become capricious and change; she may 
be piqued by jealousy, or, what is worse, by indifference; 
but, while she makes no open manifestation of these, they 
can be borne. The really insupportable thing is that a 
woman should be able to exhibit a man as a creature that 
had no possible concern or. interest for her; one who might 
come or go, or stay on, utterly unregarded or uncared for. 
To have played this game during the long hours of a long 


A DRIVE AT SUNRISE. 


259 


day Avas a burden she did not fancy to encounter; whereas, 
to fill the part for the short space of a dinner, and an hour 
or so in the drawing-room, she looked forward to rather as 
an exciting amusement. 

“He has had a day to throw away,” said she to herself, 
“and he Avill give it to the Greek girl. I almost hear him 
as he says it. How one learns to know these men in every 
nook and crevice of their natures, and hoAV by never relax- 
ing a hold on the one clew of their vanity, one can trace 
every emotion of their lives! ” 

In her old life of Rome these small jealousies, these petty 
passions of spite, defiance, and wounded sensibility, filled 
a considerable space of her existence. Her position in 
society, dependent as she was, exposed her to small morti- 
fications, — the cold semi-contemptuous notice of women 
who saw she was prettier than themselves, and the half- 
swaggering carelessness of the men who felt that a bit of 
flirtation with the Titian girl was as irresponsible a thing 
as might be. 

‘‘But here,” thought she, “I am the niece of a man of 
recognized station; I am treated in his family with a more 
than ordinary deference and respect, — his very daughter 
would cede the place of honor to me, and my will is never 
questioned. It is time to teach this pretentious fine gentle- 
man that our positions are not what they once were. If I 
were a man, I should never cease till I had fastened a quar- 
rel on him ; and being a woman, I could give my love to 
the man who would avenge me. Avenge me of what? a 
mere slight, a mood of impertinent forgetfulness, — nothing 
more; as if anything could be more to a woman’s heart! A 
downright wrong can be forgiven, an absolute injury par- 
doned, — one is raised to self-esteem by such an act of for- 
giveness ; but there is no elevation in submitting patiently 
to a slight. It is simply the confession that the liberty 
taken with you was justifiable, was even natural.” 

These Avere the sum of her thoughts, as she went, ever 
recurring to the point how Walpole Avould feel offended by 
her absence, and how such a mark of her indifference would 
pique his A-anity, even to insult. 

Then she pictured to her mind how this fine gentleman 


260 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


would feel the boredom of that dreary day. True, it would 
be but a day ; but these men were not tolerant of the people 
who made time pass heavily with them, and they revenged 
their own ennui on all around them. How he would snub 
the old man for the son’s pretensions, and sneer at the 
young man for his disproportioned ambition; and, last of 
all, how he would mystify poor Kate, till she never knew 
whether he cared to fatten calves and turkeys, or was simply 
drawing her on to little details, which he was to dramatize 
one day in an after-dinner story. 

She thought of the closed pianoforte, and her music on 
the top, — the songs he loved best; she had actually left 
Mendelssohn there to be seen, — a very bait to awaken his 
passion. She thought she actually saw the fretful impa- 
tience with which he threw the music aside and walked to 
the window to hide his anger. 

“This excursion of Mademoiselle Niua was then a sudden 
thought, you tell me; only planned last night? And is 
the country considered safe enough for a young lady to go 
off in this fashion? Is it secure? is it decent? I know he 
will ask, ‘Is it decent?’ Kate will not feel, she will not 
see the impertinence with which he will assure her that she 
herself may be privileged to do these things, that her 
‘ Irishry ’ was itself a safeguard ; but Dick will notice the 
sneer. Oh, if he would but resent it! How little hope 
there is of that! These young Irishmen get so overlaid by 
the English in early life, they never resist their dominance; 
they accept everything in a sort of natural submission. I 
wonder does the rebel sentiment make them any bolder?” 

And then she bethought her of some of those national 
songs Mr. Daniel had been teaching her, and which seemed 
to have such an overwhelming iufluence over his passionate 
nature. She had even seen the tears in his eyes, and twice 
he could not speak to her with emotion. What a triumph 
it would have been to have made the high-bred Mr. Walpole 
feel in this wise! Possibly, at the moment, the vulgar 
Fenian seemed the finer fellow. Scarcely had the thought 
struck her, than there, about fifty yards in advance, and 
walking at a tremendous pace, was the very man himself. 

“Is not that Mr. Daniel, Larry?” asked she, quickly. 


A DRIVE AT SUNRISE. 


261 


But Larry had already struck off ou a short cut across the 
bog, and was miles away. 

Yes, it could be none other than Mr. Daniel. The coat 
thrown back, the loose-stepping stride, and the occasional 
flourish of the stick as he went, all proclaimed the man. 
The noise of the wheels on the hard road made him turn his 
head ; and now, seeing who it was, he stood uncovered till 
she drove up beside him. 

“Who would have thought to see you here at this hour? ” 
said he, saluting her with deep respect. 

“No one is more surprised at it than myself,” said she, 
laughing; “but I have a partly done sketch of an old castle, 
and I thought in this fine autumn weather I should like to 
throw in the color. And, besides, there are now and then 
with me unsocial moments when I fancy 1 like to be alone. 
Do you know what these are? ” 

“Do I know? — too well.” 

“These motives, then, not to think of others, led me to 
plan this excursion; and now will you be as candid, and say 
what is your project? ” 

“I am bound for a little village called Cruhan, — a very 
poor, unenticing spot; but I want to see the people there, 
and hear what they say of these rumors of new laws about 
the laud.” 

“ And can they tell you anything that would be likely to 
interest you ? ” 

“Yes, their very mistakes would convey their hopes; and 
hopes have come to mean a great deal in Ireland. 

“ Our roads are then the same. I am on my way to Cro- 
ghan Castle.” 

“Croo-han is but a mile from my village of Cruhan,” 
said he. 

“ I am aware of that, and it was in your village of Cruhan, 
as you call it, I meant to stable my pony till I had finished 
my sketch; but my gentle page, Larry, 1 see, has deserted 
me, I don’t know if I shall find him again.” 

“AVill you let me be your groom? I shall be at the village 
almost as soon as yourself, and I’ll look after your pony.” 

“Do you think you could manage to seat yourself on that 

shelf at the back ? ” 


262 


lord kilgobbin. 


“It is a great temptation you offer me, if I were not 
ashamed to be a burden.” 

‘‘Not to me, certainly; and as for the pony, I scarcely 

think he ’ll mind it.” 

“At all events I shall walk the hills.” 

“I believe there are none. If I remember aright it is all 

through a level bog.” 

“You were at tea last night when a certain telegram 
came ? ” 

“To be sure I was. I was there, too, when one came for 
you, and saw you leave the room immediately after. 

“In evident confusion?” added he, smiling. 

“Yes, I should say, in evident confusion. At least, 
you looked like one who had got some very unexpected 
tidings.” 

“So it was. There is the message.” And he drew from 
his pocket a slip of paper, with the words, “Walpole is 
coming for a day. Take care to be out of the way till he 
is gone.” 

“Which means that He is no friend of yours.” 

“He is neither friend nor enemy. I never saw him; but 
he is the private secretary, and, I believe, the nephew of 
the Viceroy, and would find it very strange company to 
be domiciled with a rebel.” 

“And you are a rebel? ” 

“At your service. Mademoiselle Kostalergi.” 

“And a Fenian and Head-Centre?” 

“A Fenian and a Head-Centre.” 

“And probably ought to be in prison?” 

“I have been already, and as far as the sentence of Eng- 
lish law goes, should be still there.” 

“How delighted I am to know that! I mean, what a 
thrilling sensation it is to be driving along with a man so 
dangerous that the whole country would be up and in pur- 
suit of him at a mere word.” 

“That is true. I believe I should be worth some hundred 
pounds to any one who would capture me. I suspect it is 
the only way I could turn to valuable account.” 

“What if I were to drive you into Moate and give you 


A DRIVE AT SUNRISE. 


263 


“You might. 1 ’ll not run away.” 

“ I should go straight to the Podesta, or whatever he is, 
and say, ‘ Here is the notorious Daniel Donogan, the rebel 
you are all afraid of. ’ ” 

“How came you by my name? ” asked he, curtly. 

“By accident. I overheard Dick telling it to his sister. 
It dropped from him unawares, and I was on the terrace and 
caught the w^ords.” 

“I am in your hands completely,” said he, in the same 
calm voice; “but I repeat my words: I ’ll not run away.” 
“That is, because you trust to my honor.” 

“It is exactly so, — because I trust to your honor.” 

“But how if I were to have strong convictions in opposi- 
tion to all you were doing, — how if I were to believe that all 
you intended wms a gross wrong and a fearful cruelty ? ” 

“ Still you would not betray me. You would say, ‘ This 
man is an enthusiast; he imagines scores of impossible 
things, but, at least, he is not a self-seeker, — a fool, pos- 
sibly, but not a knave. It would be hard to hang him.’ ” 
“So it would. I have just thought that.’ 

“And then you might reason thus: ‘ How will it serve 
the other cause to send one poor wretch to the scaffold where 
there are so many just as deserving of it? ’ ” 

“And are there many? ” 

“I should say close on two millions at home here, and 
some hundred thousand in America.” 

“And if you be as strong as you say, what craven crea- 
tures you must be not to assert your own convictions ! ” 

“So we are, — I ’ll not deny it, — craven creatures; but 
remember this, ^Mademoiselle, we are not all like-minded. 
Some of us w'ould be satisfied wdth small concessions, some 
ask for more, some demand all; and as the Government 
higgles with some, and hangs the others, they mystify us 
all, and end by confounding us.” 

“That is to say, you are terrified.” 

“Well, if you like that word better, I ’ll not quarrel 
about it.” 

“I wonder how men as irresolute ever turn to rebellion. 
When our people set out for Crete, they went in another 
spirit to meet the enemy.” 


264 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Don’t be too sure of that. The boldest fellows in that 
exploit were the liberated felons. They fought with des- 
peration, for they had left the hangman behind.” 

“How dare you defame a great people!” cried she, 
angrily. 

“I was wdth them, Mademoiselle. I saw them and fought 
amongst them; and to prove it, 1 will speak modern Greek 
with you, if you like it.” 

“Oh, do!” said she. “Let me hear those noble sounds 
again ; though I shall be sadly at a loss to answer you. 1 
have been years and years aw^ay from Athens.” 

“I know that. I know your story from one who loved to 
talk of you, all unworthy as he was of such a theme.” 

“And who w^as this?” 

“Atlee, — Joe Atlee, whom you saw here some months 
ago.” 

“I remember him,” said she, thoughtfully. 

“He was here, if I mistake not, with that other fHeud of 
yours you have so strangely escaped from to-day.” 

“Mr. Walpole?” 

“Yes, Mr. Walpole; to meet whom would not have 
involved you^ at least, in any contrariety.” 

“Is this a question, sir? Am I to suppose your curiosity 
asks an answer here?” 

“I am not so bold; but I owm my suspicious have 
mastered my discretion, and, seeing you here this morning, 
I did think you did not care to meet him.” 

“ Well, sir, you were right. I am not sure that my 
reasons for avoiding him were exactly as strong as yoiirs^ 
but they sufficed for me.'’ 

There was something so like reproof in the way these 
words were uttered that Donogan had not courage to speak 
for some time after. At last he said: “ In one thing your 
Greeks have an immense advantage over us here. In your 
popular songs you could employ your own language, and 
deal with your own wrongs in the accents that became them. 
We had to take the tongue of the conqueror, which was as 
little suited to our traditions as to our feelings, and traves- 
tied both. Only fancy the Greek vaunting his triumphs or 
bewailing his defeats in Turkish ! ” 


A DRIVE AT SUNRISE. 


265 


“What do you know of Mr. Walpole?” asked she, 
abruptly. 

“ Very little beyond the fact that he is an agent of the 
Government, who believes that he understands the Irish 
people.” 

“ Which you are disposed to doubt? ” 

“ I only know that I am an Irishman, and I do not under- 
stand them. An organ, however, is not less an organ that 
it has many ‘ stops.’ ” 

“ I am not sure Cecil Walpole does not read you aright. 
He . thinks that you have a love of intrigue and plot, but 
without the conspirator element that Southern people possess ; 
and that your native courage grows impatient at the delays 
of mere knavery, and always betrays you.” 

“ That distinction was never his^ — that was your own.” 

“ So it was ; but he adopted it when he lieard it.” 

“That is the way the rising politician is educated,” cried 
Donogan. “ It is out of these petty thefts he makes all his 
capital, and the poor people never suspect how small a 
creature can be their millionnaire.” 

“ Is not that our village yonder, where I see the smoke? ” 
“Yes; and there on the stile sits your little groom await- 
ing you. I shall get down here.” 

“ Stay where you are, sir. It is by your blunder, not by 
your presence, that you might compromise me.” And this 
time her voice caught a tone of sharp severity that sup- 
pressed reply. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


THE EXCURSION. 

The little village of Cruhan-bawn, into which they now 
drove, was, in every detail of wretchedness, dirt, ruin, and 
desolation, intensely Irish. A small branch of the well- 
known bog-stream, the “ Brusna,” divided one part of the 
village from the other, and between these two settlements 
so separated there raged a most rancorous hatred and 
jealousy, and Cruhan-beg, as the smaller collection of hovels 
was called, detested Cruhan-bawn with an intensity of dis- 
like that might have sufficed for a national antipathy, where 
race, language, and traditions had contributed their aids 
to the animosity. 

There was, however, one real and valid reason for this 
inveterate jealousy. The inhabitants of Cruhan-beg — who 
lived, as they said themselves, “ bej^ond the river” — 
strenuously refused to pay any rent for their hovels ; while 
“ the cis-Brusnaites,” as they may be termed, demeaned 
themselves to the condition of tenants in so far as to ac- 
knowledge the obligation of rent, though the oldest inhabi- 
tant vowed he had never seen a receipt in his life, nor had 
the very least conception of a gale-day. 

If, therefore, actually there was not much to separate 
them on the score of principle, they were widely apart in 
theory, and the sturdy denizens of the smaller village looked 
down upon the others as the ignoble slaves of a Saxon 
tyranny. The village in its entirety — for the division was 
a purely local and arbitrary one — belonged to Miss Betty 
O’Shea, forming the extreme edge of her estate as it merged 
into the vast bog ; and, with the habitual fate of frontier 
populations, it contained more people of lawless lives and 


THE EXCURSION. 


267 


reckless habits than were to be found for miles around. 
There was not a resource of her ingenuity she had not 
employed for years back to bring these refractory subjects 
into the pale of a respectable tenantry. Every process of 
the law had been essayed in turn. They had been hunted 
down by the police, unroofed and turned into the wide bog ; 
their chattels had been “ canted,” and themselves — a last 
resource — cursed from the altar; but, with that strange 
tenacity that pertains to life where there is little to live for, 
these creatures survived all modes of persecution, and came 
back into their ruined hovels to defy the law and beard the 
Church, and went on living — in some strange, mysterious 
way of their own — an open challenge to all political econ- 
omy, and a sore puzzle to the “Times” commissioner 
when he came to report on the condition of the cottier in 
Ireland. 

At certain seasons of county excitement, — such as an 
election or an unusually weighty assizes, — it was not deemed 
perfectly safe to visit the village, and even the police would 
not have adventured on the step except with a responsible 
force. At other periods, the most marked feature of the 
place would be that of utter vacuity and desolation. A 
single inhabitant here and there smoking listlessly at his 
door, — a group of women, with their arms concealed be- 
neath their aprons, crouching under a ruined wall, — or a 
few ragged children, too miserable and dispirited even for 
play, would be all that would be seen. 

At a spot where the stream was fordable for a horse, the 
page Larry had already stationed himself, and now walked 
into the river, which rose over his knees, to show the road 
to his mistress. 

“ The bailiffs is on them to-day,” said he, with a gleeful 
look in his eye ; for any excitement, no matter at what cost 
to others, was intensely pleasurable to him. 

“What is he saying?” asked Nina. 

“They are executing some process of law against these 
people,” muttered Donogan. “ It ’s an old stoiy in Ireland ; 
but I had as soon you had been spared the sight.” 

“Is it quite safe for yourself?” whispered she. “Is 
there not some danger in being seen here?” 


268 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Oh, if I could but think that you cared, — I mean ever 
so slightly,” cried he, with fervor, “ I ’d call this moment of 
my danger the proudest of my life ! ” 

Though declarations of this sort, more or less sincere 
as chance might make them, were things Nina was well 
used to, she could not help marking the impassioned manner 
of him who now spoke, and bent her eyes steadily on him. 

“It is true,” said he, as if answering the interrogation in 
her gaze. “ A poor outcast as I am, — a rebel, — a felon, — 
anything you like to call me, — the slightest show of your 
interest in me gives my life a value and my hope a purpose 
I never knew till now.” 

“ Such interest would be but ill-bestowed if it only served 
to heighten your danger. Are you known here? ” 

“ He who has stood in the dock, as I have, is sure to be 
known by some one. Not that the people would betray me. 
There is poverty and misery enough in that wretched village, 
and yet there ’s not one so hungry or so ragged that he 
would hand me over to the law to make himself rich for 
life.” 

“ Then what do you mean to do? ” asked she, hurriedly. 
“Walk boldly through the village at the head of your 
pony, as I am now, — your guide to Croghau Castle.” 

“ But we were to have stabled the beast here. I intended 
to have gone on foot to Croghan.” 

“ Which you cannot now. Do you know what English 
law is. Lady?” cried he, fiercely. “This pony and this 
carriage, if they had shelter here, are confiscated to the 
landlord for his rent. It ’s little use to say you owe nothing 
to this owner of the soil ; it ’s enough that they are found 
amongst the chattels of his debtors.” 

“ I cannot believe this is law.” 

“ You can prove it, — at the loss of your pony ; and it is 
mercy and generous dealing when compared with half the 
enactments our rulers have devised for us. Follow me. I 
see the police have not yet come down. I will go on in 
front and ask the way to Croghan.” 

There was that sort of peril in the adventure now that 
stimulated Nina and excited her ; and as they stoutly 
wended their way through the crowd, she was far from in- 


THE EXCURSION. 


269 


sensible to the looks of admiration that were bent on her 
from every side. 

“What are they saying?” asked she; “I do not know 
their lano'uao-e.” 

o o 

“ It is Irish,” said he ; “ they are talking of your beauty.” 

“I should so like to follow their words,” said she, with 
the smile of one to whom such homage had ever its charm. 

“ That wild-looking fellow, that seemed to utter an im- 
precation, has just pronounced a fervent blessing; what he 
has said was, ‘ May every glance of your eye be a caudle to 
light you to glory.” 

A half-insolent laugh at this conceit was all Nina’s ac- 
knowledgment of it. Short greetings and good wishes were 
now rapidly exchanged between Donogan and the people, as 
the little party made their way through the crowd, — the men 
standing bareheaded, and the women uttering words of 
admiration, some even crossing themselves piously, at sight 
of such loveliness as to them recalled the ideal of all 
beauty. 

“ The police are to be here at one o’clock,” said Donogan, 
translating a phrase of one of the bystanders. 

“ And is there anything for them to seize on ? ” asked she. 

“No; but they can level the cabins,” cried he, bitterly. 
“We have no more right to shelter than to food.” 

Moody and sad, he walked along at the pony’s head, and 
did not speak another word till they had left the village far 
behind them. 

Larry, as usual, had found something to interest him, and 
dropped behind in the village, and they were alone. 

A passing countryman, to whom Donogan addressed a few 
words in Ii'ish, told them that a short distance from Croghan 
they could stable the pony at a small “ shebeen.” 

On reaching this, Nina, who seemed to have accepted 
Donogan’s companionship without further question, directed 
him to unpack the carriage, and take out her easel and her 
drawing materials. “You’ll have to carry these, — for- 
tunately not very far, though,” said she, smiling, “ and 
then you ’ll have to come back here and fetch this basket.” 

“It is a very proud slavery, — command me how you 
will,” muttered he, not without emotion. 


270 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


“ That,” continued she, pointing to the basket, “ contains 
my breakfast, and luncheon or dinner, and I invite you to be 
my guest.” 

“And I accept Avith rapture. Oh!” cried he, passion- 
ately, “ Avhat whispered to my heart this morning that this 
would be the happiest day of my life ! ” 

“ If so, fate has scarcely been generous to you.” And her 
lip curled half superciliously as she spoke. 

“ I ’d not say that. I have lived amidst great hopes, many 
of them dashed, it is true, by disappointment ; but who tliat 
has been cheered by glorious day-dreams has not tasted 
moments at least of exquisite bliss? ” 

“ I don’t know that I have much sympathy with political 
ambitions,” said she, pettishly. 

“ Have you tasted, — have you tried them? Do you know 
what it is to feel the heart of a nation throb and beat, — 
to know that all that love can do to purify and elevate can 
be exercised for the countless thousands of one’s oavii race 
and lineage, and to think that long after men have forgotten 
3"Our name, some heritage of freedom Avill survive to say that 
there once lived one who loved his country? ” 

“ This is very pretty enthusiasm.” 

“ Oh, hoAv is it that you, Avho can stimulate one’s heart to 
such confessions, know nothing of the sentiment?” 

“ I have my ambitions,” said she, coldly, almost sternly. 

“ Let me hear some of them.” 

“They are not like yours, though they are perhaps just 
as impossible.” She spoke in a broken, unconnected man- 
ner, like one who was talking aloud the thoughts that came 
laggingly ; then Avith a sudden earnestness she said: “I’ll 
tell you one of them. It’s to catch the broad bold light that 
has just beat on the old castle there, and brought out all its 
rich tints of grays and yellows in such a glorious Avealth of 
color. Place my easel here, under the trees ; spread that rug 
for yourself to lie on. No — you won’t have it? Well, fold 
it neatly, and place it there for my feet : A^ery nicely done. 
And now. Signor Ribello, you may unpack that basket, and 
arrange our breakfast ; and A\dien you liave done all these, 
throw yourself down on the grass, and either tell me a pretty 
story, or recite some nice Akerses for me, or be otherwise 
amusing and agreeable.” 


THE EXCURSION. 


271 


“ Shall I do what will best please myself? If so, it will 
be to lie here and look at you.” 

“ Be it so,” said she, with a sigh. “ I have always 
thought, in looking at them, how saints are bored by being 
worshipped, — it adds fearfully to martyrdom ; but, happily, 
I am used to it. ‘ Oh the vanity of that girl ! ’ Yes, sir, 
say it out : tell her frankly that if she has no friend to 
caution her against this besetting wile, that you will be that 
friend. Tell her that whatever she has of attraction is 
spoiled and marred by this self-consciousness, and that just 
as you are a rebel without knowing it, so should she be 
charming and never suspect it. Is not that coming nicely? ” 
said she, pointing to the drawing; “see how that tender 
light is carried down from* those gray walls to the banks 
beneath, and dies away in that little pool, where the faintest 
breath of air is rustling. Don’t look at me, sir ; look at my 
drawing.” 

“ True, there is no tender light there,” muttered he, gaz- 
ing at her eyes, where the enormous size of the pupils had 
given a character of steadfast brilliancy, quite independent 
of shape or size or color. 

“You know very little about it,” said she, saucily; then, 
bending over the drawing, she said, “ That middle distance 
wants a bit of color; you shall aid me here.” 

“ How am I to aid you? ” asked he, in sheer simplicit}". 

“ I mean that you should be that bit of color, there. Take 
my scarlet cloak, and perch yourself yonder on that low 
rock. A few minutes will do. Was there ever immortality 
so cheaply purchased ! Your biographer sliall tell that you 
were the figure in that famous sketch, — what will be called, 
in the cant of art, one of Nina Kostalergi’s earliest and hap- 
piest efforts. There, now, dear Mr. Donogan, do as you 
are bid.” 

“ Do you know the Greek ballad, where a youth remembers 
that the word ‘ dear ’ has been coupled with his name, — a 
passing courtesy, if even so much, but enough to light up a 
whole chamber in his heart?” 

“ I know nothing of Greek ballads. How does it go? ” 
“It is a simple melody, in a low key.” And he sang, in 
a deep but tremulous voice, to a very plaintive air, — 


272 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I took her hand witliin my own, 

I drew her gently nearer, 

And whispered almost on her cheek, 

‘ Oh, would that I Avere dearer ! ’ 

Dearer ! No, that ’s not my prayer : 

A stranger, e’en the merest. 

Might chance to have some value there ; 

But I would be the dearest,” 

“What had he done to merit such a hope?” said she, 
haughtily. 

“ Loved her, — only loved her! ” 

“ What value you men must attach to this gift of your 
affection, when it can nourish such thoughts as these ! Your 
very wilfulness is to win us, — is not that your theory? I 
expect from the man who offers me his heart that he means 
to share with me his own power and his own ambition, — to 
make me the partner of a station that is to give me some 
pre-eminence I had not known before, nor could gain 
unaided.” 

“ And you would call that marrying for love?” 

“ Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he 
who makes the life worth living for? Did you hear that 
shout? ” 

“ I heard it,” said he, standing still to listen. 

“ It came from the village. What can it mean? ” 

“ It’s the old war-cry of the houseless,” said he, mourn- 
fully. “It’s a note we are well used to here. I must go 
down to learn. I’ll be back presently.” 

“You are not going into danger?” said she; and her 
cheek grew paler as she spoke. 

“ And if I were, who is to care for it? ” 

“ Have you no mother, sister, sweetheart?” 

“ No, not one of the three. Good-bye.” 

“ But if I were to say — stay ? ” 

“ I should still go. To have your love, I’d sacrifice even 
my honor. AVithout it — ” He threw up his arms despair- 
ingly and rushed away. 

“ These are the men whose tempers compromise us,” said 
she, thoughtfully. “ AVe come to accept their violence as a 
reason, and take mere impetuosity for an argument. I am 


THE EXCURSION. 


273 


glad that he did not shake my resolution. There, that was 
another shout, but it seemed in joy. There was a ring of 
gladness in it. Now for my sketch.” And she re-seated 
herself before her easel. “ He shall see when he comes 
back how diligently I have worked, and how small a share 
anxiety has had in my thoughts. The one thing men are not 
proof against is our independence of them.” And thus talk- 
ing in broken sentences to herself, slie went on rapidly with 
her drawing, occasionally stopping to gaze on it, and hum- 
minsr some old Italian ballad to herself. “ His Greek air 
was pretty. Not that it was Greek ; these fragments of 
melody were left behind them by the Venetians, who, in all 
lust of power, made songs about contented poverty and 
humble joys. I feel intensel}^ hungry, and if my dangerous 
guest does not return soon I shall have to breakfast alone, — 
another way of showing him how little his fate has interested 
me. My foreground here does want that bit of color. 
Why does he not come back?” As she rose to look at her 
drawing, the sound of somebody running attracted her atten- 
tion, and turning, she saw it was her foot-page Larry coming 
at full speed. 

“ What is it, Larry? What has happened?” asked she. 

“You are to go — as fast as you can,” said he; which, 
being for him a longer speech than usual, seemed to have 
exhausted him. 

“ Go where? and why?” 

“Yes,” said he, with a stolid look, “ you are.” 

“I am to do what? Speak out, boy! Who sent you 
here?” 

“ Yes,” said he, again. 

“Are they in trouble yonder? Is there fighting at the 
village?” 

“ No.” And he shook his head, as though he said so 
regretfully. 

Will you tell me what you mean, boy ? ” 

“The pony is ready,” said he, as he stooped down to 
pack away the things in the basket. 

“Is that gentleman coming back here, — that gentleman 

whom you saw with me?” 

“He is gone; he got away.” And here he laughed in 

18 


274 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


a malicious way, that was more puzzling even than his 
words. 

“And am I to go back home at once?” 

“Yes,” replied he, resolutely. 

“Do you know why, — for what reason? ” 

“I do.” 

“Come, like a good boy, tell me, and you shall have 
this ; ” and she drew a piece of silver from her purse, and 
held it temptingly before him. “Why should I go back, 
now ? ” 

“Because,” muttered he, — “because — ” and it was plain, 
from the glance in his eyes, that the bribe had engaged all 
his faculties. 

“So, then, you will not tell me?” said she, replacing the 
money in her purse. 

“Yes,” said he, in a despondent tone. 

“You can have it still, Larry, if you will but say who 
sent you here.” 

sent me,” was the answer. 

“Who was he? Do you mean the gentleman who came 
here with me?” A nod assented to this. “And what did 
he tell you to say to me? ” 

“Yes,” said he, with a puzzled look, as though once more 
the confusion of his thoughts was mastering him. 

“So, then, it is that you will not tell me?” said she, 
angrily. He made no answer, but went on packing the 
plates in the basket. “ Leave those there, and go and fetch 
me some water from the spring yonder.” And she gave him 
a jug as she spoke, and now she reseated herself on the 
grass. He obeyed at once, and returned speedily with 
water. 

“Come now, Larry, ” said she kindly to him. “I ’m sure 
you mean to be a good boy. You shall breakfast with me. 
Get me a cup, and I ’ll give you some milk; here is bread 
and cold meat.” 

“Yes,” muttered Larr}^, whose month was already too 
much engaged for speech. 

“You will tell me by and by what they were doing at the 
village, and what that shouting meant, — won’t you? ” 

“Yes,” said he, with a nod. Then suddenly bending his 


THE EXCURSION. 


275 


bead to listen, he motioned with his hand to keep silence, 
and after a long breath said, “They ’re coming.” 

“Who are coming? ” asked she, eagerly; but at the same 
instant a man emerged from the copse below the hill, fol- 
lowed by several others, whom she saw by their dress and 
equipment to belong to the constabulary. 

Approaching with his hat in his hand, and with that air 
of servile civility which marked him, old Gill addressed 
her. “If it ’s not displazin’ to ye, miss, we want to ax you 
a few questions,” said he. 

“You have no right, sir, to make any such request,” said 
she, with a haughty air. 

“There was a man with you, my Lady,” he went on, “as 
you drove through Cruhan, and we want to know where he 
is now.” 

“That concerns you, sir, and not me.” 

“Maybe it does, my Lady,” said he, with a grin; “but I 
suppose you know who you were travelling with ? ” 

“You evidently don’t remember, sir, whom you are 
talking to.” 

“ The law is the law, miss, and there ’s none of us above 
it,” said he, half defiantly; “and when there’s some hun- 
dred pounds on a man’s head there ’s few of us such fools as 
to let him slip through our fingers.” 

“I don’t understand you, sir, nor do I care to do so.” 
“The sergeant there has a warrant against him,” said he, 
in a whisper he intended to be confidential; “and it’s not 
to do anything that your Ladyship would think rude that 1 
came up myself. There ’s how it is now,” muttered he, 
still lower. “They want to search the luggage, and exam- 
ine the baskets there, and maybe, if you don’t object, they ’d 
look through the carriage.” 

“And if I should object to this insult? ” broke she in. 
“Faix, I believe,” said he, laughing, “they ’d do it all the 
same. Eight hundred — I think it’s eight — isn’t to be 
made any day of the year!” 

“My uncle is a justice of the peace, Mr. Gill; and you 
know if he will suffer such an outrage to go unpunished.” 
“There ’s the more reason that a justice should n’t harbor 
a PYnian, miss,” said he, boldly; “as he ’ll know when he 
sees the search-warrant.” 


27G 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Get ready the carriage, Larry,” said she, turning con- 
temptuously away, “and follow me towards the village.” ‘ 

“The sergeant, miss, would like to say a word or two,” 
said Gill, in his accustomed voice of servility. 

“I will not speak with him,” said she, proudly, and 
swept past him. 

The constables stood to one side, and saluted in military 
fashion as she passed down the hill. There was that in 
her queen-like gesture and carriage that so impressed them, 
the men stood as though on parade. 

Slowly and thoughtfully as she sauntered along, her 
thoughts turned to Donogan. Had he escaped? was the 
idea that never left her. The presence of these men here 
seemed to favor that impression; but there might be others 
on his track ; and if so, how in that wild bleak space was 
he to conceal himself? A single man moving miles away 
on the bog could be seen. There was no covert, no shelter 
anywhere! AVhat an interest did his fate now suggest; and 
yet a moment back she believed herself indifferent to him. 
“Was he aware of his danger,” thought she, “when he lay 
there talking carelessly to me? was that recklessness the 
bravery of a bold man who despised peril?” And if so, 
what stuff these souls were made of I These were not of the 
Kearney stamp, that needed to be stimulated and goaded to 
any effort in life; nor like Atlee, the fellow who relied on 
trick and knavery for success; still less such as Walpole, 
self-worshippers and triflers. “Yes,” said she, aloud, “a 
woman might feel that with such a man at her side the 
battle of life need not affright her. He might venture too 
far, — he might aspire to much that was beyond his reach, 
and strive for the impossible; but that grand bold spirit 
would sustain him, and carry him through all the smaller 
storms of life; and such a man might be a hero, even to 
her who saw him daily. These are the dreamers, as we 
call them,” said she. “How strange it would be if they 
should prove the realists, and that it was \re should be the 
mere shadows! If these be the men who move empires and 
make history, how doubly ignoble are we in our contempt 
of them.” And then she bethought her what a different 
faculty was that great faith that these men had in them- 


THE EXCURSION. 


277 


selves from common vanity; and in this ^yay she was led 
again to compare Uonogan and Walpole. 

She reached the village before her little carriage had 
overtaken her, and saw that the people stood about in groups 
and knots. A depressing silence prevailed over them, and 
they rarely spoke above a whisper. The same respectful 
greeting, however, which welcomed her before met her again ; 
and as they lifted their hats, she saw, or thought she saw, 
that they looked on her with a more tender interest. Several 
policemen moved about through the crowd, who, though 
tney saluted her respectfully, could not refrain from scruti- 
nizing her appearance and watching her as she went. AYith 
that air of haughty self-possession which well became her, 
— for it was no affectation, — she swept proudly along, 
resolutely determined not to utter a word, or even risk a 
question as to the way. 

Twice she turned to see if her pony were coming, and 
then resumed her road. From the excited air and rapid 
gestures of the police, as they hurried from place to place, 
she could guess that up to this Donogau had not been cap- 
tured. Still, it seemed hopeless that concealment in such 
a place could be accomplished. 

As she gained the little stream that divided the village, 
she stood for a moment uncertain ; w'hen a countrywoman, 
as it were divining her difficulty, said, “If you T1 cross 
over the bridge, my Lady, the path will bring you out on 
the high-road.” 

As Nina turned to thank her, the woman looked up from 
her task of washing in the river, and made a gesture with 
her hand towards the bog. Slight as the action was, it 
appealed to that Southern intelligence that reads a sign even 
faster than a word. Nina saw that the woman meant to 
say Donogan had escaped, and once more she said, “Thank 
you, — from my heart I thank you ! ” 

' Just as she emerged upon the higli-road, her pony and car- 
riage came up. A sergeant of police was, however, in 
waiting beside it, who, saluting her respectfully, said: 
“There was no disrespect meant to you, miss, by our 
search of the carriage; our duty obliged us to do it. We ^ 
have a warrant to apprehend the man that was seen with 


278 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


you this morniug, and it ’s only that we know who you are, 
and where you come from, prevents us from asking you to 
come before our chief/’ 

He presented his arm to assist her to her place as he 
spoke; but she declined the help, and, wdthout even notic- 
ing him in any way, arranged her rugs and wu’aps around 
her, took the reins, and, motioning Larry to his place, 
drove on. 

“Is my drawing safe? — have all my brushes and pencils 
been put in? ” asked she, after a wLile. But already Larry 
had taken his leave, and she could see him as he flitted 
across the bog to catch her by some short cut. 

That strange contradiction by which a woman can jour- 
ney alone and in safety through the midst of a country only 
short of open insurrection, filled her mind as she wmnt; and 
thinking of it in every shape and fashion occupied her for 
miles of the way. The desolation, far as the eye could 
reach, was complete, — there was not a habitation, not a 
human thing to be seen. The dark brown desert faded 
away in the distance into low-lying clouds, the only break 
to the dull uniformity being some stray “clamp,” as it is 
called, of turf, left by the owners from some accident of 
season or bad weather, and which loomed out now^ against 
the sky like a vast fortress. 

This long, long day — for so without any weariness she 
felt it — was now in the afternoon, and already long 
shadows of these turf-mounds stretched their giant limbs 
across the waste. Nina, who had eaten nothing since at 
early morning, felt faint and hungry. She halted her pony, 
and taking out some bread and a bottle of milk, proceeded 
to make a frugal luncheon. The complete loneliness, the 
perfect silence, in which even the rattling of the harness as 
the pony shook himself made itself felt, gave something of 
solemnity to the moment, as the young girl sat there and 
gazed half terrified around her. 

As she looked, she thought she saw something pass from 
one turf-clamp to the other; and, wmtching closely, she 
could distinctly detect a figure crouching near the ground, 
and after some minutes emerging into the open space, 
again to be hid by some vast turf-mound. There, now, — 


THE EXCURSION. 


279 


there could not be a doubt, — it was a man, and he* was 
waving his handkerchief as a signal. It was Donogan him- 
self; she could recognize him well. Clearing the Ions 
drains at a bound, and with a speed that vouched for per- 
fect training, he came rapidly forward, and, leaping the wide 
trench, alighted at last on the road beside her, 

“I have watched you for an hour, and but for this lucky 
halt, I should not have overtaken you after all,” cried he, 
as he wiped his brow, and stood panting beside her. 

“Do you know that they are in pursuit of you?” cried 
she, hastilv. 

“I know it all. I learned it before I reached the village, 
and in time — only in time — to make a circuit and reach 
the bog. Once there, I defy the best of them.” 

“They have what the}" call a warrant to search for you.” 

“I know that, too,” cried he. “No, no!” said he, pas- 
sionately, as she offered him a drink. “Let me have it 
from the cup you have drunk from. It may be the last 
favor I shall ever ask vou, — don’t refuse me this! ” 

She touched the glass slightly with her lips, and handed 
it to him with a smile. 

“What peril would I not brave for this! ” cried he, with a 
wild ecstasy. 

“Can you not venture to return with me?” said she, in 
some confusion, for the bold gleam of his gaze now half 
abashed her. 

“No. That would be to compromise others as well as 
myself. I must gain Dublin how I can. There I shall be 
safe against all pursuit. I have come back for nothing 
but disappointment,” added he, sorrowfully. “This coun- 
try is not ready to rise; they are too many-minded for a 
common effort. The men like Wolfe Tone are not to be 
found amongst us now, and to win freedom you must dare 
the felony.” 

“Is it not dangerous to delay so long here?” asked she, 
looking around her with anxiety. 

“So it is; and I will go. Will you keep this for me? ” 
said he, placing a thick and much- worn pocket-book in her 
hands. “There are papers there would risk far better heads 
than mine ; and if I should be taken, these must not be dis- 


280 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


covei’ed. It may be, Nina, — oh, forgive me if I say your 
name ! but it is such joy to me to utter it once, — it may be 
that you should chance to hear some word whose warning 
might save me. If so, and if you would deign to write to 
me, you ’ll find three, if not four, addresses, under any of 
which you could safely write to me.” 

“I shall not forget. Good fortune be with you. Adieu! ” 
She held out her hand; but he bent over it, and kissed it 
rapturously; and when he raised his head, his eyes ’were 
streaming, and his cheeks deadly pale. “Adieu! ” said 
she, again. 

He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips ; and 
when, after she had driven some distance away, she turned 
to look after him, he was standing on the same spot in the 
road, his hat at his foot, where it had fallen when he 
stooped to kiss her hand. 





CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE RETURN. 

Kate Kearney was in the act of sending out scouts and 
messengers to look out for Nina, whose long absence had 
begun to alarm her, when she heard that she had returned 
and was in her room. 

“What a fright you have given me, darling! ” said Kate, 
as she threw her arms about her, and kissed her affection- 
ately. “Do you know how late you are?” 

“No; I only know how tired I am.” 

“What a long day of fatigue you must have gone through! 
Tell me of it all.” 

“Tell me rather of yours. You have had the great Mr. 
Walpole here ; is it not so ? ” 

“ Yes ; he is still here, — he has graciously given us another 
day, and will not leave till to-morrow night.” 

“By what good fortune have you been so favored as 
this ? ” 

“Ostensibly to finish a long conversation or conference 
with papa; but really and truthfully, I suspect, to meet 
Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whose absence has piqued him.” 
“Yes; piqued is the word. It is the extreme of the pain 
he is capable of feeling. What has he said of it? ” 

“Nothing beyond the polite regrets that courtesy could 
express, and then adverted to something else.” 

“With an abruptness that betrayed preparation?” 
“Perhaps so.” 

“Not perhaps, but certainly so. Vanity such as his has 
no variety. It repeats its moods over and over; but why 
do we talk of him ? I have other things to tell you of. You 
know that man who came here with Dick. That Mr. — ” 


282 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“I know, — I know,” cried the other, hurriedly; “what of 
him ? ” 

“He joined me this morning, on my way through the bog, 
and drove with me to Cruhan,” 

“Indeed!” muttered Kate, thoughtfully. 

“A strange, wayward, impulsive sort of creature, — 
unlike any one ; interesting from his strong convictions — ” 

“Did he convert you to any of his opinions, Nina?” 

“You mean, make a rebel of me. No; for the simple 
reason that I had none to surrender. I do not know what 
IS wrong here, nor what people would say was right.” 

“You are aware, then, who he is?” 

“ Of course I am. I was on the terrace that night when 
your brother told you he was Donogan, — the famous Fenian 
Donogan. The secret was not intended for me, but I kept 
it all the same, and I took an interest in the man from the 
time I heard it.” 

“You told him, then, that you knew who he was.” 

“To be sure I did, and we are fast friends already; but 
let me go on with my narrative. Some excitement, some 
show of disturbance at Cruhan persuaded him that what 
he called — I don’t know why — the Crowbar Brigade was 
at work, and that the people were about to be turned adrift 
on the world by the landlord, and hearing a wild shout from 
the village, he insisted on going back to learn what it might 
mean. He had not left me long when your late steward, 
Gill, came up with several policemen, to search for the con- 
vict Donogan. They had a warrant to apprehend him, and 
some information as to where he had been housed and 
sheltered.” 

“ Here — with us ? ” 

“Here — with you! Gill knew it all. This, then, was the 
reason for that excitement we had seen in the village. The 
people had heard the police were coming, but for what they 
knew not; of course the only thought was for their own 
trouble.” 

“Has he escaped? Is he safe? ” 

“Safe so far that I last saw him on the wide bog, some 
eight miles away from any human habitation; but where 
he is to turn to, or who is to shelter him, I cannot say. ” 


THE RETURN. 


283 


“He told you there was a price upon his head?” 

“Yes, some hundred pounds; I forget how much, but he 
asked me yesterday if I did uot feel tempted to give him 
up and earn the reward.” 

Kate leaned her head upon her hand, and seemed lost in 
thouoht. 

C7 

“They will scarcely dare to come and search for him 
here,” said she; and, after a pause, added, “And yet I 
suspect that the chief constable, Mr. Curtis, owes, or thinks 
he owes, us a grudge ; he might not be sorry to pass this 
slight upon papa.” And she pondered for some time over 
the thought. 

“Do you think he can escape?” asked Nina, eagerly. 

“Who, — Donogan? ” 

“Of course, — Donogan.” 

“Yes, I suspect he will ; these men have popular feeling 
with them, even amongst many who do not share their 
opinions. Have you lived long enough amongst us, Nina, 
to know that we all hate the law? In some shape or other 
it represents to the Irish mind a tyranny.” 

“You are Greeks without their acuteness,” said Nina. 

“I T1 not say that,” said Kate, hastily. “It is true I 
know nothing of your people, but I think I could aver that 
for a shrewd calculation of the cost of a venture, for know- 
ing when caution and when daring will best succeed, the 
Irish peasant has scarcely a superior anywhere.” 

“I have heard much of his caution this very morning,” 
said Nina, superciliously. 

“You might have heard far more of his recklessness, if 
Donogan cared to tell of it,” said Kate, with irritation. “It 
is not English squadrons and batteries he is called alone to 
face, he has to meet English gold, that tempts poverty, and 
English corruption, that begets treachery and betrayal. 
The one stronghold of the Saxon here is the informer, and 
mind, I, who tell you this, am no rebel. I would rather 
live under English law, if English law would not ignore 
Irish feeling, than I ’d accept that Heaven knows what of 
a sovernment Fenian ism could give us.” 

“I care nothing for all this; I don’t well know if I can 
follow it; but I do know that I ’d like this man to escape. 


284 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


He gave me this pocket-book, and told me to keep it safely. 
It contains some secrets that would compromise people that 
none suspect, and it has, besides, some three or four 
addresses to which I could write with safety if I saw cause 
to warn him of any coming danger.” 

“And you mean to do this?” 

“Of course I do; I feel an interest in this man. I like 
him. 1 like his adventurous spirit. I like that ambitious 
daring to do or to be something beyond the herd around 
him. I like that readiness he shows to stake his life on an 
issue. His enthusiasm inflames his whole nature. He 
vulgarizes such fine gentlemen as Mr. Walpole, and such 
poor pretenders as Joe Atlee, and, indeed, your brother, 
Kate.” 

“I will suffer no detraction of Dick Kearney,” said Kate, 
resolutely. 

“Give me a cup of tea, then, and I shall be more man- 
nerly; for I am quite exhausted, and I am afraid my temper 
is not proof against starvation.” 

“ But you will come down to the drawing-room ; they are 
all so eager to see you,” said Kate, caressingly. 

“No; I ’ll have my tea and go to bed, and I ’ll dream that 
Mr. Donogan has been made King of Ireland, and made an 
offer to share the throne with me.” 

“Yoiir Majesty’s tea shall be served at once,” said Kate, 
as she courtesied deeply and withdrew. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


'‘o’ shea’s barn.” 

There were many more pretentious houses than “O’Shea’s 
Barn.” It would have been easy enough to discover larger 
rooms and tiner furniture, more numerous servants and 
more of display in all the details of life; but for an air of 
quiet comfort, for the certainty of meeting with every mate- 
rial enjoyment that people of moderate fortune aspire to, it 
stood unrivalled. 

The rooms were airy and cheerful, with flowers in sum- 
mer, as they were well heated and well lighted in winter. 
The most massive-looking but luxurious old arm-chairs, 
that modern taste would have renudiated for imliness, 
abounded everywhere ; and the four cumbrous but comfort- 
able seats that stood around the circular dinner-table — and 
it was a matter of principle with Miss Betty that the com- 
pany should never be more numerous — only needed speech 
to have told of traditions of conviviality for very nigh two 
centuries back. 

As fora dinner at “the Barn,” the whole county-side con- 
fessed that they never knew how it was that Miss Betty’s 
salmon was “curdier,” and her mountain mutton more 
tender, and her woodcocks racier and of higher flavor than 
any one else’s. Her brown sherry you might have equalled, 
— she liked the color and the heavy taste, — but I defy you 
to match that marvellous port which came in with the 
cheese, and as little, in these days of light Bordeaux, that 
stout-hearted Sneyd’s claret, in its ancient decanter, whose 
delicately fine neck seemed fashioned to retain the bouquet. 

The most exquisite compliment that a courtier ever 
uttered could not have given Miss Betty the same pleasure 
as to hear one of her guests request a second slice off “the 
haunch.” This was, indeed, a flattery that appealed to her 


286 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


finest sensibilities, and, as she herself carved, she knew how 
to reward that appreciative man with fat. 

^ever was the virtue of hospitality more self-re^^a^ding 
than in her case; and the discriminating individual who 
ate wdth gusto, and who never associated the w'rong condi- 
ment with his food, found favor in her eyes, and was suie 
of re-invitation. 

Fortune had rewarded her with one man of correct taste 
and exquisite palate as a diner-out. dhis was the parish 
priest, the Rev. Luke Delany, who had been educated 
abroad, and whose natural gifts had been improved by 
French and Italian experiences. He was a small little meek 
man, with closely cut black hair and eyes of the darkest; 
scrupulously neat in dress, and, by his ruffles and buckled 
shoes at dinner, affecting something of the abbe in his 
appearance. To such as associated the Catholic priest with 
coarse manners, vulgar expressions, or violent sentiments. 
Father Luke, with his low voice, his w'ell-chosen w’ords, 
and his universal moderation, wms a standing rebuke ; and 
many an Phiglish tourist who met him came aw^ay with the 
impression of the gross calumny that associated this man’s 
order with underbred habits and disloyal ambitions. He 
spoke little, but he was an admirable listener; and there 
was a sweet encouragement in the bland nod of his head, 
and a racy appreciation in the bright twinkle of his hu- 
morous eye, that the prosiest talker found irresistible. 

There were times, indeed, — stirring intervals of political 
excitement, — when Miss Betty w^ould have liked more 
hardihood and daring in her ghostly counsellor; but Heaven 
help the man wfflo would have ventured on the open avowal 
of such opinion or uttered a word in disparagement of 
Father Luke. 

It was in that snug dinner-room I have glanced at that a 
party of four sat over their wine. They had dined admi- 
rably, a bright w’ood-fire blazed on the hearth, and the scene 
was the emblem of comfort and quiet conviviality. Oppo- 
site Miss O’Shea sat Father Delany, and on either side of 
her her nephew Gorman and Mr. Ralph Miller, in whose 
honor the present dinner was given. 

The Romish bishop of the diocese had vouchsafed a guarded 


•‘O’SHEA’S BARN.’' 


287 


and cautious approval of Mr. Miller’s views, and secretly 
instructed Father Delauy to learn as much more as he con- 
veniently could of the learned gentleman’s intentions before 
committing himself to a pledge of hearty support. 

“I will give him a good dinner,” said Miss O’Shea, “and 
some of the ’45 claret; and if you cannot get his sentiments 
out of him after that, I wash my hands of him.” 

Father Delauy accepted his share of the task, and assur- 
edly Miss Betty did not fail on her part. 

The conversation had turned principally on the coming 
election, and Mr. Miller gave a flourishing account of his 
success as a canvasser, and even went the length of doubting 
if any opposition would be offered to him. 

“Ain’t you and young Kearney going on the same ticket? ” 
asked Gorman, who was too new to Ireland to understand 
the nice distinctions of party. 

“Pardon me,” said Miller, “we differ essentially. Tl'e 
want a government in Ireland; the nationalists want none. 
TFe desire order by means of timely concessions and judi- 
cious boons to the people. They want disorder, the dis- 
play of gross injustice, — content to wait for a scramble, 
and see what can come of it.” 

“Mr. Miller’s friends, besides,” interposed Father Luke, 
“would defend the Church and protect the Holy Father; ” 
and this was said with a half interrogation. 

Miller coughed twice, and said, “Unquestionably. We 
have shown our hand already; look what we have done with 
the Established Church.” 

“You need not be proud of it,” cried Miss Betty. “If 
you wanted to get rid of the crows, why did n’t you pull 
down the rookery ? ” 

“At least, they don’t caw so loud as they used,” said 
the priest, smiling; and Miller exchanged delighted glances 
with him for his opinion. 

“I want to be rid of them, root and branch,” said Miss 
Betty. 

“If you will vouchsafe us, ma’am, a little patience. 
Rome was not built in a day. The next victory of our 
Church must be won by the downfall of the English estaU 
lishment. Ain’t I right. Father Luke? ” 


288 


LORD KILGOBBIK. 


“lam not quite clear about that,” said the priest, cau- 
tiously. “Equality is uot the safe road to supremacy c” 
“What was that row over towards Croghau Castle this 
moruiiig?” asked Gorman, who was getting wearied with 
a discussion he could uot follow. “I saw the constabulary 
going in force there this afternoon.” 

“They were in pursuit of the celebrated Dan Donogan,” 
said Father Luke. “They say he was seen at Moate.” 
“They say more than that,” said Miss Betty. “They say 
that he is stopping at Kilgobbin Castle! ” 

“I suppose to conduct young Kearney’s election,” said 
Miller, laughing. 

“And why should they hunt him down?” asked Gorman. 
“What has he done?” 

“He’s a Fenian, — a Head-Centre; a man who wants to 
revolutionize Ireland,” replied Miller. 

“And destroy the Church,” chimed in the priest. 
“Humph! ” muttered Gorman, who seemed to imply. Is 
this all you can lay to his charge? “Has he escaped?” 
asked he, suddenly. 

“Up to this he has,” said Miller. “ I was talking to the 
constabulary chief this afternoon, and he told me that the 
fellow is sure to be apprehended. He has taken to the open 
bog, and there are eighteen in full cry after him. There is 
a search-warrant too arrived, and they mean to look him 
up at Kilgobbin Castle.” 

“To search Kilgobbin Castle, do you mean?” asked 
Gorman. 

“Just so. It will be, as I perceive }mu think it, a great 
offence to Mr. Kearney, and it is not impossible that his 
temper ma}" provoke him to resist it.” 

“ The mere rumor may materially assist his son’s election,” 
said the priest, slyly. 

“Only with the party who have no votes. Father Luke,” 
rejoined Miller. “ That precarious popularity of the mob is 
about the most dangerous enemy a man can have in Ireland.” 
“ You are right, sir,” said the priest, blandly. “ The real 
favor of this people is only bestowed on him who has gained 
the confidence of the clergy.” 

“If that be true,” cried Gorman, “ upon my oath I think 


“ O’SHEA’S BARN.” 


289 


you are worse off here than in Austria. There, at least, 
we are beginning to think without the permission of the 
Church.” 

“Let us have none of your atheism here, young man,” 
broke in his aunt, angrily. “Such sentiments have never 
been heard in this room before.” 

“If 1 apprehend Lieutenant Gorman aright,” interposed 
Father Luke, “ he only refers to the late movement of 
the Austrian Empire with reference to the Concordat, on 
which, amongst religious men, there are two opinions.” 
“No, no, you mistake me altogether,” rejoined Gorman. 
“ What I mean was that a man can read and talk and 
think in Austria without the leave of the priest ; that he can 
marry, and, if he like, he can die without his assistance.” 

“ Gorman, you are a beast,” said the old lady; “ and if 
you lived here, you would be a Fenian.” 

“ You ’re wrong too, aunt,” replied he. “I ’d crush those 
fellows to-morrow if I was in power here.” 

“ Mayhap the game is not so easy as you deem it,” inter- 
posed Miller. 

“ Certainly it is not so eas}^ when played as you do it 
here. You deal with your law-breakers only by the rule of 
legality ; that is to say, you respect all the regulations of 
the game towards the men who play false. You have your 
cumbrous details, and your lawyers and judges and juries, 
and you cannot even proclaim a county in a state of siege 
witliout a bill in your blessed Parliament, and a basketful 
of balderdash about the liberty of the subject. Is it any 
wonder rebellion is a regular trade with you, and that men 
who don’t like work or business habits take to it as a 
livelihood? ” 

“ But have you never heard Curran’s saying, young gentle- 
man, — ‘ You cannot bring an indictment against a nation ’ ? ” 
said Miller. 

“ I’d trouble myself little with indictments,” replied Gor- 
man. “I’d break down the confederac}^ by spies ; I ’d seize 
the fellows I knew to be guilty, and hang them.” 

“ Without evidence, witliout trial? ” 

“ Very little of a trial, when I had once satisfied myself of 
the guilt.” 


19 


290 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


“Are you so certain that no innocent men might be 
brought to the scaffold?” asked the priest, mildly. 

“No, I am not. I take it, as the world goes, very few of 
us go through life without some injustice or another. I’d 
do my best not to hang the fellows who did n’t deserve it, but 
I own I’d be much more concerned about the millions who 
wanted to live peaceably than the few hundred rapscallions 
that were bent on troubling tliem.” 

“I must say, sir,” said the priest, “I am much more 
gratified to know that you are a Lieutenant of Lancers in 
Austria than a British Minister in Downing Street.” 

“ I have little doubt myself,” said the other, laughing, 
“that I am more in my place; but of this I am sure, that 
if we were as mealy-mouthed with our Croats and Slovacks 
as you are with your Fenians, Austria would soon go to 
pieces.” 

“ There is, however, a higher price on that man Donogan’s 
head than Austria ever offered for a traitor,” said Miller. 

“ I know how you esteem money here,” said Gorman, 
laughing. “ When all else fails you, you fall back upon 
it.” 

“Why did I know nothing of these sentiments, young 
man, before I asked you under my roof?” said Miss Betty, 
in anger. 

“ You need never to have known them now, aunt, if these 
gentlemen had not provoked them, nor indeed are they solely 
mine. I am only telling you what you would hear from any 
intelligent foreigner, even though he chanced to be a liberal 
in his own country.” 

“Ah, yes,” sighed the priest; “what the young gentle- 
man says is too true. The Continent is alarmingly in- 
fected with such opinions as these.” 

“Have you talked on politics with young Kearney?” 
asked Miller. 

“ He has had no opportunity,” interposed Miss O’Shea. 
“ My nephew will be three weeks here on Thursday next, 
and neither Mathew nor his son have called on him.” 

“Scarcely neighborlike that, I must say,” cried Miller. 

“I suspect the fault lies on my side,” said Gorman, 
boldly. “ When I was little more than a boy, I was never 


“O’SHEA’S BAKN.” 


291 


out of that house. The old mau treated me like a sou. 
All tlie more, perhaps, as his own sou was seldom at home, 
and the little girl Kitty certainly regarded me as a brother ; 
and though we had our fights and squabbles, we cried very 
bitterly at parting, and each of us vowed we should never 
like any one so much again. And now, after all, here am 
I three weeks, within two hours’ ride of them, and my aunt 
insists that my dignity requires I should be first called on. 
Confound such dignity, say I, if it lose me the best and 
the pleasantest friends 1 ever had in my life.” 

“I scarcely thought of yoiu' dignity, Gorman O’Shea,” 
said the old lady, bridling, “ though I did bestow some 
consideration on my own.” 

“I’m very sorry for it, aunt; and I tell you fairly — 
and there ’s no impoliteness in the confession — that when 
I asked for my leave, Kilgobbin Castle had its place in 
my thoughts as well as O’Shea’s Barn.” 

“ Why not say it out, young gentleman, and tell me that 
the real charm of coming here was to be within twelve 
miles of the Kearneys?” 

“The merits of this house are very independent of con- 
tiguity,” said the priest; and as he eyed the claret in his 
glass, it was plain that the sentiment was an honest one. 

“ Fifty-six wine, I should say,” said Miller, as he laid 
down his glass. 

“ Forty-five, if Mr. Barton be a mau of his word,” said 
the old lady, reprovingly. 

“Ah,” sighed the priest, plaintively, “How rarely one 
meets these old full-bodied clarets nowadays ! The free 
admission of French wines has corrupted taste and impaired 
palate. Our cheap Gladstones have come upon us like 
universal suffrage.” 

“ The masses, however, benefit,” remarked Miller. 

“ Only in the first moment of acquisition and in the 
novelty of the gain,” continued Father Luke; “and then 
they suffer irreparably in the loss of that old guidance, 
which once directed appreciation when there was something 
to appreciate.” 

“ ATe want the priest again, in fact,” broke in Gorman. 

“You must admit they understand wine to perfection, 


292 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


though I would humbly hope, young gentleman, ” said the 
Father, modestly, “to engage your good opinion of them 
on higher grounds.” 

“Give yourself no trouble in the matter. Father Luke,” 
broke in Miss Betty. “Gorman’s Austrian lessons have 
placed him beyond your teaching.” 

“ My dear aunt, you are giving the Imperial Government 
a credit it never deserved. They taught me as a cadet 
to groom my horse and pipeclay my uniform, to be respect- 
ful to my corporal, and to keep my thumb on the seam of 
m}^ trousers when the captain’s eye was on me ; but as to 
what passed inside my mind, if I had a mind at all, or 
what I thought of Pope, Kaiser, or Cardinal, they no more 
cared to know it than the name of my sweetheart.” 

“ tYhat a blessing to that benighted country would be 
one liberal statesman ! ” exclaimed Miller, — “ one man of 
the mind and capacity of our present premier ! ” 

“Heaven forbid!” cried Gorman. “We have confu- 
sion enough, without the reflection of being governed by 
what you call here ‘healing measures.’” 

“I should like to discuss that point with you,” said 
Miller. 

“Not now, I beg,” interposed Miss O’Shea. “Gorman, 
will you decant another bottle?” 

“ I believe I ought to protest against more wine,” said 
the priest, in his most insinuating voice; “but there are 
occasions where the yielding to temptation conveys a moral 
lesson.” 

“ I suspect that I cultivate my nature a good deal in that 
fashion,” said Gorman, as he opened a fresh bottle. 

“This is perfectly delicious,” said Miller, as he sipped 
his glass; “and if I could venture to presume so far, I 
would ask leave to propose a toast.” 

“ You have my permission, sir,” said Miss Betty, with 
stateliness. 

“ I drink, then,” said he, reverently, — “I drink to the 
long life, the good health, and the unbroken courage of 
the Holy Father.” 

There was something peculiarly sly in the twinkle of the 
priest’s black eye as he filled his bumper, and a twitch- 


“O’SHEA’S BARN.” 


293 


ing motion of the corner of his mouth continued even as 
he said, “To the Pope.” 

“ The Pope,” said Gorinau, as he eyed his wine, — 

“ Der Papst lebt herrlich iu der W elt.” 

“ What are you muttering there ? ” asked his aunt, fiercely. 

“The line of an old song, aunt, that tells us how his 
Holiness has a jolly time of it.” 

“ I fear me it must have been written in other days,” 
said Father Luke. 

“There is no intention to desert or abandon him, I 
assure you,” said Miller, addressing him in a low but eager 
tone. “I could never — no Irishman could — ally himself 
to an administration which should 'sacrifice the Holy See. 
With the bigotry that prevails in England, the question 
requires most delicate handling ; and even a pledge cannot 
be given, except in language so vague and imprecise as to 
admit of many readings.” 

“ Why not bring in a Bill to give him a subsidy, a some- 
thing per annum, or a round sum down?” cried G-orman. 

“ Mr. Miller has just shown us that Exeter Hall might 
become dangerous. English intolerance is not a thing to 
be rashly aroused.” 

“If I had to deal with him, I’d do as Bright proposed 
with your landlords here. I ’d buy liiin out, give him a 
handsome sum for his interest, and let him go.” 

“And how would you deal with the Church, sir?” asked 
the priest. 

“I have not thought of that; but I suppose one might 
put it into commission, as they say, or manage it by a 
Board, with a First Lord, like the Admiralty.” 

“I will give you some tea, gentlemen, when you appear 
in the drawing-room,” said Miss Betty, rising with dignity, 
as though her condescension in sitting so long with the 
party had been ill rewarded by her nephew’s sentiments. 

The priest, however, offered his arm, and the others 
followed as he left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


AN EARLY GALLOP. 

IMatfiew Kearney had risen early, an unusual thing with 
him of late ; but he had some intention of showing his guest 
Mr. Walpole over the farm after breakfast, and was anxious 
to give some preliminary orders to have everything “ ship- 
shape ” for the inspection. 

To make a ver}" disorderl}^ and much-neglected Irish farm 
assume an air of discipline, regularity, and neatness at a 
moment’s notice, was pretty much such an exploit as it 
would have been to muster an Indian tribe, and pass them 
before some Prussian martinet as a regiment of guards. 

To make the ill-fenced and misshapen fields seem trim 
paddocks, wavering and serpentining furrows appear straight 
and regular lines of tillage, weed-grown fields look marvels 
of cleanliness and care, while the lounging and ragged popu- 
lation were to be passed off as a thriving and industrious 
peasanti’}", well paid and contented, were difficulties that Mr. 
Kearney did not propose to confront. Indeed, to do him 
justice, he thought there was a good deal of pedantic and 
“ model-farming humbug ” about all that English passion 
for neatness he had read of in public journals, and as our 
fathers — better gentlemen, as he called them, and more 
liospitable fellows than any of us — had got on without 
steam-mowing and threshing and bone-crushing, he thought 
we might farm our properties without being either black- 
smiths or stokers. 

“God help us!” he would say. “I suppose we’ll be 
chewing our food by steam one of these days, and filling our 
stomachs by hydraulic pressure. But for my own part, I 
like something to work for me that I can swear at when it 
goes wrong. There’s little use in cursing a cylinder.” 


AX EAKLY GALLOP. 


295 


To have heard him amongst his laborers that morning, 
it was plain to see that they were not in the category of 
machinery. On one pretext or another, however, they had 
slunk away one by one, so that at last he found himself 
storming alone in a stubble-field, with no other companion 
than one of Kate’s terriers. The sharp barking of this dog 
aroused him in the midst of his imprecations, and looking 
over the dry-stone wall that enclosed the field, he saw a 
horseman coming along at a sharp canter, and taking the 
fences as they came like a man in a hunting-field. He rode 
well, and was mounted upon a strong wiry hackney, — a cross- 
bred horse, and of little moneyed value, but one of those 
active cats of horseflesh that a knowing hand can appreciate. 
Now, little as Kearney liked the liberty of a man riding 
over his ditches and his turnips, when out of hunting season, 
his old love of good horsemanship made him watch the rider 
with interest and even pleasure. “May I never!” mut- 
tered he to himself, “ if he ’s not coming at this wall.” And 
as the enclosure in question was built of large jagged stones, 
without mortar, and fully four feet in height, the upper 
course being formed of a sort of coping in which the stones 
stood edgewise, the attempt did look somewhat rash. Not 
taking the wall where it was slightly breached, and where 
some loose stones had fallen, the rider rode boldly at one of 
the highest portions, but where the ground was good on 
either side. 

“He knows what he’s at!” muttered Kearney, as tlie 
horse came bounding over and alighted in perfect safety in 
the field. 

“ Well done, whoever you are ! ” cried Kearney, delighted, 
as the rider removed his hat and turned round to salute 
him. 

“ And don’t you know me, sir? ” asked he. 

“Faith, I do not,” replied Kearney; “but somehow I 
think I know the chestnut. To be sure I do. There ’s the 
old mark on her knee, how ever she found the man who 
could throw her down. Isn’t she Miss O’Shea’s Kattoo?” 

“ That she is, sir, and I ’m her nephew.” 

“ Are you?” said Kearney, dryly. 

The young fellow was so terribly pulled up by the unex* 


296 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


pectecl repulse, more marked even by the look than the 
words of the other, that he sat unable to utter a syllable. 
“I had hoped, sir,” said he at last, “that I had not out- 
grown your recollection, as I can promise none of your 
former kindness to me has outgrown mine.” 

“ But it took you three weeks to recall it, all the same,” 
said Kearney. 

“It is true, sir, I am very nearly so long here; but my 
aunt, whose guest I am, told me 1 must be called on first ; 
that — I ’m sure I can’t say for whose benefit it was sup- 
posed to be — I should not make the first visit ; in fact, 
there was some rule about the matter, and that I must not 
contravene it. And although I yielded with a very bad 
grace, I was in a measure under orders, and dared not 
resist.” 

“ She told you, of course, that we were not on our old 
terms ; that there was a coldness between the families, and 
we had seen nothing of each other lately?” 

“Not a word of it, sir.” 

“ Nor of any reason why you should not come here as of 
old?” 

“None, on my honor; beyond this piece of stupid eti- 
quette, I never heard of anything like a reason.” 

“ I am all the better pleased with m}^ old iieighbor,” said 
Kearney, in his more genial tone. “Not, indeed, that I 
ought ever to have distrusted her, but for all that — Well, 
never mind,” muttered he, as though debating the question 
with himself, and unable to decide it, “ you are liere now — 
eh! You are here now.” 

“ You almost make me suspect, sir, that I ought not to be 
here now.” 

“ At all events, if you were waitino- for me vou would n’t 
be here. Is not that true, young gentleman?” 

“ Quite true, sir, but not impossible to explain.” And he 
now flung himself to the ground, and with the rein over Ids 
arm, came up to Kearney’s side. “ I suppose, but for an 
accident, I should have gone on waiting for that visit vou 
had no intention to make me, and canvassing with myself 
how long you were taking to make up your mind to call on 
me, when I heard only last night that some noted rebel — I ’ll 


297 


AN p:akly gallop. 

remember his name in a minute or two — was seen in the 
neighborhood, and that the police were on his track with a 
warrant, and even intended to search for him here.” 

“ In my house, — in Kilgobbin Castle? ” 

“ Yes, here in your house, where, from a sure information, 
he had been harbored for some days. This fellow — a 
Head-Centre, or leader, with a large sum on his head — has, 
they say, got away; but the hope of finding some papers, 
some clew to him here, will certainly lead them to search the 
castle, and I thought I ’d come over and apprise you of it at 
all events, lest the surprise should prove too much for your 
temper.” 

“Do they forget I’m in the commission of the peace?” 
said Kearney, in a voice trembling with passion. 

‘‘You know far better than me how far party spirit tempers 
life in this country, and are better able to say whether some 
private intention to insult is couched under this attempt.” 
“That’s true,” cried the old man, ever read v to regard 
himself as the object of some secret malevolence. “You 
cannot remember this rebel’s name, can you?” 

“ It was Daniel something, — that ’s all I know.” 

A long, fine whistle was Kearney’s rejoinder, and after a 
second or two he said: “I can trust you, Gorman; and I 
may tell you they may be not so great fools as I took them 
for. Not that I was harboring the fellow, mind you ; but 
there came a college friend of Dick’s here a few davs back, 
— a clever fellow he was, and knew Ireland well, — and we 
called him Mr. Daniel, and it was but yesterday he left us 
and did not return. I have a notion now he was the Head- 
Centre they ’re looking for.” 

“ Do you know if he has left any baggage or papers behind 
him?” 

“ I know nothing about this whatever, nor do I know 
how far Dick was in his secret.” 

“You will be cool and collected, I am sure, sir. when they 
come here with the search-warrant. You ’ll not give them 
even the passing triumph of seeing that you are annoyed or 
offended ? ” 

“ That I will, my lad. I’m prepared now, and I’ll take 
them as easy as if it was a morning call. Come in and have 


298 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


your breakfast with us, and say nothing about what we ’ve 
been talking over.” 

“Many thanks, sir, but I think — indeed, I feel sure — I 
ought to go back at once. 1 have come here without my 
aunt’s knowledge, and now that I have seen you and put you 
on your guard, I ought to get back as fast as I can.” 

“ So 3 ’ou shall when you feed your beast and take some- 
thing yourself. Poor old Kattoo is n’t used to this sort of 
cross-country work, and she ’s panting there badly enough. 
That mare is twenty-one years of age.” 

“ She ’s fresh on her legs, — not a curb, nor a spavin, nor 
even a wind-gall about her,” said the young man. 

“And the reward for it all is to be ridden like a steeple- 
chaser I ” sighed old Kearney. “ Is n’t that the world over? 
Break down early, and you are a good-for-nothing. Carry 
on your spirit and your pluck and your endurance to a green 
old age, and maybe they won’t take it out of you ! — always 
contrasting you, however, with yourself long ago, and tell- 
ing the bystanders what a rare beast you were in your good 
days. Do you think they had dared to pass this insult upon 
me wdien I was five-and-twenty or thirty? Do you think 
there ’s a man in the county would have come on this errand 
to search Kilgobbin when I was a young man, Mr. O’Shea?” 
“ 1 think you can afford to treat it with the contempt you 
have determined to siiow it.” 

“That’s all very fine now,” said Kearney; “but there 
was a time I ’d rather have chucked the chief constable out 
of the window, and sent the sergeant after him.” 

“I don’t know whether that would have been better,” 
said Gorman, wdth a faint smile. 

“ Neither do I ; but I know that I myself would have felt 
better and easier in my mind after it. I ’d have eaten my 
breakfast with a good appetite, and gone about my day’s 
work, whatever it was, with a free heart and fearless in my 
conscience! Ay, ay,” muttered he to himself, “poor old 
Ireland is n’t what it used to be ! ” 

“ I ’m very sorry, sir, but though I ’d like immensely to go 
back with you, don’t you think I ought to return home? ” 

“ I don’t think anything of the sort. Your aunt and I 
had a tiff the last time we met, and that was some months 


AN EARLY GALLOP. 


299 


ago. "We ’re both of as old and cross-grained enough to 
keep up the grudge for the rest of our lives. Let us, then, 
make the most of the accident that has led you here, and 
when you go home you shall be the bearer of the most sub- 
missive message 1 can invent to my old friend, and there 
shall be no terms too humble for me to ask her pardon.” 

“ That’s enough, sir. I’ll breakfast here.” 

“ Of course you’ll say nothing of what brought you over 
here. But I ought to warn you not to drop anything care- 
lessly about politics in the county generally, for we have a 
young relative and a private secretary of the Lord Lieutenant’s 
visiting us, and it ’s as well to be cautious before him.” 

The old man mentioned this circumstance in the cursory 
tone of an ordinary remark, but he could not conceal the 
pride he felt in the rank and condition of his guest. As for 
Gorman, perhaps it was his* foreign breeding, perhaps his 
ignorance of all home matters generally, but he simply 
assented to the force of the caution, and paid no other atten- 
tion to the incident. 

“ His name is AValpole, and he is related to half the peer- 
age,” said the old man, with some irritation of manner. 

A mere nod acknowledged the information, and he went 
on ; — 

“ This was the young fellow who was with Kitty on the 
night they attacked the castle, and he got both bones of his 
forearm smashed with a shot.’’ 

“ An ugly wound,” was the only rejoinder. 

“So it was, and for a while they thought he ’d lose the 
arm. Kitty says he behaved beautifully, cool and steady all 
through.” 

xVnother nod, but this time Gorman’s lips were firmly 
compressed. 

“ There ’s no denving it,” said the old man, with a touch 
of sadness in his voice, — “ tliere ’s no denying it, the Eng- 
lish have courage; though,” added he afterwards, “it’s in a 
cold, slugo-ish wav of their own, which we don’t like here. 
There he is now, that young fellow that has just parted from 
the two girls. The tall one is my niece, — I must present 
you to her.” 


CHAPTER XL. 


OLD MEMORIES. 

Though both Kate Kearney and young O’Shea had greatly 
outgrown each other’s recollection, there were still traits of 
feature remaining, and certain tones of voice, b}" which they 
were carried back to old times and old associations. 

Amongst the strange situations in life, there are few 
stranger, or, in certain respects, more painful, than the 
meeting after long absence of those who, when they had 
parted years before, were on terms of closest intimacy, and 
who now see each other changed by time, wdth altered habits 
and manners, and impressed in a variety of ways with in- 
fluences and associations which impart their own stamp on 
character. 

It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far 
we ourselves have changed in the interval, and how much of 
what we regard as altered in another ma}^ not simply be the 
new standpoint from which we are looking, and thus our 
friend may be graver or sadder or more thoughtful, or, as 
it may happen, seem less reflective and less considerative 
than we have thought him, all because the world has been 
meantime dealing with ourselves in such wise that qualities 
we once cared for have lost much of their value, and others 
that we had deemed of slight account have grown into im- 
portance with us. 

Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting 
scenes which had impressed us strongly in early life : how 
the mountain we regarded with a wondering admiration had 
become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool of sluggish 
water ; and some of this same awakening pursues us in our 
renewal of old intimacies, and we find ourselves continually 
warring with our recollections. 


OLD MEMORIES. 


301 


Besides this, there is another source of uneasiness that 
presses unceasingly. It is in imputing every change we dis- 
cover, or think we discover in our friend, to some unknown 
intluences that have asserted their power over him in our 
absence, and thus when we find that our arguments liave lost 
their old force, and our persuasions can be stoutly resisted, 
we begin to think that some other must have usurped our 
place, and that there is treason in the heart we had deemed 
to be loyally our own. 

IIow far Kate and Gorman suffered under these irritations, 
I do not stop to inquire ; but certain it is, that all their re- 
newed intercourse was little other than snappish reminders 
of unfavorable change in each, and assurances more frank 
than flattering that they had not improved in the interval. 

“ How well I know every tree and alley of this old gar- 
den ! ” said he, as they strolled along one of the walks in 
advance of the others. “ Nothing is changed here but the 
people.” 

“ And do you think we are?” asked she, quietly. 

“ I should think I do ! Not so much for your father, per- 
haps. 1 suppose men of his time of life change little, if at 
all ; but you are as ceremonious as if I had been introduced 
to you this morning.” 

“ You addressed me so deferentially as Miss Kearney, and 
with such an assuring little intimation that you were not 
either very certain of tliat^ that I should have been very 
courageous indeed to remind you that I once was Kate.” 

“ No, not Kate, — Kitty,” rejoined he, quickly. 

“Oh, yeS; perhaps, when you were young, but we grew 
out of that.” 

“ Did we? And when?” 

“ When we gave up climbing cherry-trees, and ceased to 
pull each other’s hair when we were angiy.” 

“ Oh dear ! ” said he, drearily, as his head sunk heavily. 

“ You seem to sigh over those blissful times, IMr. O’Shea,” 
said she, “as if they were terribly to be regretted.” 

“ So thev are. So I feel them.” 

ft/ 

“ I never knew before that quarrelling left such pleasant 
associations.” 

“ My memory is good enough to remember times when we 


302 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


were not quarrelling, — when I used to think you were nearer 
an angel than a human creature, — ay, when 1 have had the 
boldness to tell you so.” 

‘^You don’t mean that?'" 

“I do mean it, and 1 should like to know why I should 
not mean it? ” 

“ For a great many reasons, — one amongst the number, 
that it would have been highly indiscreet to turn a poor 
child’s head wdth a stupid Battery.” 

‘‘But w'ere you a child? If I’m right, you were not very 
far from fifteen at the time I speak of.” 

“Hoav shocking that you should remember a young lady’s 

age! ” 

“That is not the point at all,” said he, as though she had 
been endeavoring to introduce another issue. 

“And what is the point, pray?” asked she, haughtily. 
“Well, it is this, — hov»^ many have uttered what you call 
stupid flatteries since that time, and how have they been 
taken.” 

“Is this a question?” asked she. “I mean a question 
seeking to be answered?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Assuredly, then, Mr. O’Shea, however time has been 
dealing with me^ it has contrived to take marvellous liber- 
ties with you since we, met. Do you know, sir, that this is 
a speech you would not have uttered long ago for worlds?” 
“If I have forgotten myself as well as 3"ou,” said he, with 
deep humility, “I very humbly crave pardon. Not but 
there were da}"S,” added he, “when my mistake, if I made 
one, would have been forgiven without my asking.” 

“There ’s a slight touch of presumption, sir, in telling me 
what a wonderful person I used to think you long ago.” 

“So you did,” cried he, eagerly. “In return for the 
homage I laid at your feet, as honest an adoration as ever 
a heart beat with, you condescended to let me build my 
ambitious before you, and I must own you made the edifice 
very dear to me.” 

“To be sure, I do remember it all, and I used to play or 
sing, ‘ Mein vSchatz ist ein Reiter,’ and take your word that 
you were going to be a Lancer — 


OLD MEMORIES. 


303 


‘ In file arrayed, 

With helm and blade, 

And plume in the gay wind dancing.' 

I ’m certain my cousin would be charmed to see you in all 
your bravery.” 

"‘Your cousin will not speak to me for bein^ an 
Austrian. ” 

“Has she told you so?” 

“Yes; she said it at breakfast.” 

“That denunciation does not sound very dangerously; is 
it not worth your while to struggle against a miscon- 
ception ? ” 

“I have had such luck in my present attempt as should 
scarcely raise my courage.” 

“You are too ingenious by far for me, Mr. O’Shea,” said 
she, carelessly. “I neither remember so well as 3^011, nor 
have I that nice subtlety in detecting all the lapses each of 
us has made since long ago. Tiy, however, if 3’ou cannot 
get on better with Mademoiselle Kostalergi, where there 
are no antecedents to disturb 3^011.” 

“T will; that is, if she let me.” 

“I trust she may, and not the less willingly, perhaps, as 
she evidentl3' will not speak to Mr. Walpole.” 

“Ah, indeed, and is he here? ” He stopped and hesitated; 
and the full, bold look' she gave him did not lessen his 
embarrassment. 

“Well, sir,” asked she, “go on. Is this another 
reminiscence? ” 

“No, Miss Kearney; I was only thinking of asking 3’ou 
wTo this Mr. Walpole was.” 

“Mr. Cecil Walpole is a nephew or a something to the 
Lord Lieutenant, wLose private secretary he is. He is very 
clever, very amusing, — sings, draws, rides, and laughs at 
the Irish to perfection. I hope you mean to like him.” 

“Do 3mu? ” 

“Of course, or I should not have bespoken 3’our S3U11- 
patli3u M3^^ cousin used to like him, but somehow he has 
fallen out of favor with her.” 

“Was he absent some time?” asked he, with a half- 
cunning manner. 


304 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Yes, I believe there was something of that in it. He 
was not here for a considerable time; and when we saw him 
again, we almost owned we were disappointed. Papa is 
calling me 'from the window; pray excuse me for a 
moment." She left him as she spoke, and ran rapidly 
back to the house, whence she returned almost immedi- 
ately. “It was to ask you to stop and dine here, 31r. 
O’Shea," said she. “There will be ample time to send back 
to Miss O’Shea, and if you care to have your dinner-dress, 
they can send it.’’ 

“This is Mr. Kearney’s invitation?’’ asked he. 

“Of course; papa is the master at Kilgobbin.’’ 

“But will Miss Kearney condescend to say that it is hers 
also ? ’’ 

“Certainly; though I’m not aware what solemnity the 
engagement gains by my co-operation." 

“I accept at once; and if you allow me, I ’ll go back and 
send a line to my aunt to say so." 

“Don’t 3mu remember Mr. O’Shea, Dick?" asked she, 
as her brother lounged up, making his first appearance that 
day. 

“I’d never have known you," said he, surveying him 
from head to foot, without, however, any mark of cor- 
diality in the recognition. 

“All find me a good deal changed!" said the ^mung 
fellow, drawing himself to his full height, and with an air 
that seemed to say, “and none the worse for it." 

“I used to fanc\" I was more than ^mur match," rejoined 
Dick, smiling; “I suspect it’s a mistake I am little likely 
to incur again." 

“Don’t, Dick, for he has got a very ugly wa^" of ridding 
people of their illusions," said Kate, as she turned once 
more and walked rapidty’^ towards the house. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


TWO FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 

There svere a number of bolder achievements Gorman 
O’Shea would have dared rather than write a note; nor 
were the cares of the composition the only dilliculties of the 
undertaking. He knew of but one style of correspondence, 

— the report to his commanding otiicer, — and in this he 
was aided by a formula to be filled up. It was not, then, 
till after several efforts, he succeeded in the following 
familiar epistle: — 

“ Kilgobbin Castle. 

“ Dear Aunt, — Don’t blow np or make a rumpus, but if I had 
not taken the mare and come over here this morning, the rascally 
police with their search-warrant might have been down upon Mr. 
Kearney without a warning. They were all stiff and cold enough at 
first ; they are nothing to brag of in the way of cordiality even yet, 

— Dick especially, — but they have asked me to stay and dine, and 
I take it, it is the riglit thing to do. Send me over some things to 
dress with — and believe me 

“ Your affectionate nephew, 

“ G. O’Shea. 

“ I send the mare back, and shall walk home to-morrow morning. 

“ There ’s a great Castle swell here, a Mr. Walpole, but I have 
not made his acquaintance yet, and can tell nothing about him.” 

Towards a late hour of the afternoon a messenger arrived 
with an ass-cart and several trunks from O’Shea’s Barn, 
and with the following note : — 

“ Dear Nephew Gorman, — O’Shea’s P)arn is not an inn, nor 
are the horses there at public livery. So much for your information. 
As you seem fond of ‘warnings,’ let me give you one, which is. 
To mind your own affairs in preference to the interests of other 
people. The family at Kilgobbin are perfectly welcome — so far 

20 


306 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


as I am concerned — to the fascinations of your society at dinner 
to-day, at breakfast to-morrow, and so on, with such regularity and 
order as the meals succeed. To which end, 1 have now sent you all 
the luggage belonging to you here. 

“ i am very respectfully, your aunt, 

“Elizabeth O’Shea.’" 

The quaint, old-fashioned, rugged writing was marked 
throughout by a certain distinctness and accuracy that 
betokened care and attention ; there was no evidence what- 
ever of haste or passion, and this expression of a serious 
determination, duly weighed and resolved on, made itself 
very painfully felt by the young man as he read. 

“1 am turned out, — in plain words, turned out I” said 
he aloud, as he sat with the letter spread out before him. 
“It must have been no common quarrel — not a mere cold- 
ness between the families — when she resents my coming 
here in this fashion.” That innumerable differences could 
separate neighbors in Ireland, even persons with the same 
interests and the same religion, he well knew, and he sol- 
aced himself to think how he could get at the source of 
this disagreement, and what chance there might be of a 
reconciliation. 

Of one thing he felt certain. Whether his aunt were 
right or wrong, whethe]’ tyrant or victim, he knew in his 
heart all the submission must come from the others. He 
had only to remember a few of the occasious in life in which 
he had to entreat his aunt’s forgiveness for the injustice she 
had herself inliicted, to anticipate what humble pie IMathew 
Kearney must partake of in order to conciliate jMiss Betty’s 
favor. 

“Meanwhile,” he thought, and not only thought, but said 
too, — “meanwhile I am on the world.” 

Up to this, she had allowed him a small ^^early income. 
Father Luke, whose judgment on all things relating to Con- 
tinental life was unimpeachable, had told her that any- 
thing like the reputation of being well off or connected with 
wealthy people would lead a young man into ruin in the 
Austrian service; that with a sum of three thousand francs 
per annum — about one hundred and twenty pounds — he 
would be in possession of something like the double of his 


TWO FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 


307 


pay, or rather more, and that with this he would he enabled 
to have all the necessaries and many of the comforts of 
his station, and still not be a mark for that high play and 
reckless style of living that certain young Hungarians of 
family and large fortune affected; and so far the priest was 
correct, for the young Gorman was wasteful and extravagant 
from disposition, and his quarter’s allowance disappeared 
almost when it came. His money out, he fell back at once 
to the penurious habits of the poorest subaltern about him, 
and lived on his florin-and-half per diem till his resources 
came round again. He hoped — of course he hoped — that 
this momentary fit of temper would not extend to stopping 
his allowance. 

“She knows as well as any one,” muttered he, “that 
though the baker’s son from Prague or the Amtmaun’s 
nephew from a Bavarian Dorf may manage to ‘ come through ’ 
with his pay, the young Englishman cannot. I can neither 
piece m}^ own overalls, nor forswear stockings; nor can I 
persuade my stomach that it has had a full meal by tighten- 
ing my girth-strap three or four holes. 

“I’d go down to the ranks to-morrow rather than live 
that life of struggle and contrivance that reduces a man to 
playing a dreary game with himself, by which, while he 
feels like a pauper, he has to fancy he felt like a gentle- 
man. No, no, I ’ll none of this. Scores of better men have 
served in the ranks. I ’ll just change 1113^ regiment. By a 
lucky chance, I don’t know a man in the IValmoden Cuiras- 
siers. I ’ll join them, and nobody will ever be the wiser.” 

There is a class of men who go through life building verv 
small castles, and are no more discouraged by the frailty 
of the architecture than is a child with his toy-house. This 
was Gorman’s case; and now that he had found a solution 
of his difficulties in the Walmoden Cuirassiers, he really 
dressed for dinner in very tolerable spirits. “It ’s droll 
enough,” thought he, “to go down to dine amongst all these 
‘ swells,’ and to think that the fellow behind my chair is 
better off than myself.” The very uncertainty of his fate 
supplied excitement to his spirits, for it is amongst the 
privileges of the 3"oung that mere flurry can be pleasurable. 

When Gorman reached the drawing-room, he found only 


308 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


one person. This was a young man in a shooting-coat, 
who, deep in the recess of a comfortable arm-chair, sat with 
the “ Times ” at his feet, and to all appearance as if half 
dozing. 

He looked around, however, as young O’Shea came for- 
ward, and said carelessly, “I suppose it’s time to go and 
dress, — if I could.” 

O’Shea making no reply, the other added, “That is, if I 
have not overslept dinner altogether.” 

“I hope not, sincerely,” rejoined the other, “or I shall 
be a partner in the misfortune.” 

“Ah, you ’re the Austrian,” said Walpole, as he stuck his 
glass in his eye and surveyed him. 

“Yes; and you are the private secretary of the Governor.” 
“Only we don’t call him Governor. We say Viceroy 
here.” 

“With all my heart, Viceroy be it.” 

There was a pause now; each, as it were, standing on 
his guard to resent any liberty of the other. At last Wal- 
pole said, “I don’t think you were in the house when that 
stupid stipendiary fellow called here this morning?” 

“No; I was strolling across the fields. He came with the 
police, I suppose ? ” 

“Yes, he came on the track of some Fenian leader, — a 
droll thought enough anywhere out of Ireland, to search 
for a rebel under a magistrate’s roof; not but there was 
something still more Irish in the incident.” 

“How was that?” asked O’Shea, eagerljn 
“I chanced to be out walking with the ladies when the 
escort came; and as they failed to find the man they were 
after, the}^ proceeded to make diligent search for his papers 
and letters. That taste for practical joking that seems an 
instinct in this country suggested to Mr. Kearney to direct 
the fellows to my room, and what do 3^011 think they have 
done? Carried off bodily all mj^ baggage, and left me with 
nothing but the clothes I ’m wearing ! ” 

“What a lark!” cried O’Shea, laughing. 

“Yes, I take it that is the national way to look at these 
things; but that passion for absurdit}^ and for ludicrous 
situations has not the same hold on us English.” 


TWO FA.MILIAR EPISTLES. 


309 


“I know that. A^ou are too well off to be droll. 

“Not exactly that; but when we want to laugh we go to 
the Adelphi/’ 

“Heaven help you if you have to pay people to make fun 
for you ! ” 

Before Walpole could make rejoinder, the door opened to 
admit the ladies, closely followed by Mr. Kearney and 
Dick. 

“ Not mine the fault if I disgrace your dinner-table by 
such a costume as this,” cried Walpole. 

“I’d have given twenty pounds if they ’d have carried off 
yourself as the rebel ! ” said the old man, shaking with 
laughter. “But there’s the soup on the table. Take my 
niece, Mr. Walpole; Gorman, give your arm to my daugh- 
ter. Dick and I will bring up the rear.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 


AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

The fatalism of youth, unlike that of age, 'is all rose- 
colored. That which is comiug, and is decreed to come, 
cannot be very disagreeable. This is the theory of the 
young, and differs terribly from the experiences of after- 
life. Gorman O’Shea had gone to dinner with about as 
heavy a misfortune as could well befall him, so far as his 
future in life was concerned. All he looked forward to and 
hoped for was lost to him. The aunt, who for so many 
years had stood to him in place of all family, had suddenly 
thrown him off', and declared that she would see him no 
more; the allowance she had hitherto given him withdrawn, 
it was impossible he could continue to hold his place in his 
regiment. Should he determine not to return, it was deser- 
tion ; should he go back, it must be to declare that he was a 
mined man, and could only serve in the ranks. These 
were the thoughts he revolved while he dressed for dinner, 
and dressed, let it be owned, with peculiar care; but when 
the task had been accomplished, and he descended to the 
drawing-room, such was the elasticity of his young temper- 
ament, every thought of coming evil was merged in the 
sense of present enjoyment, and the merry laughter which 
he overheard as he opened the door obliterated all notion 
that life had anything before him except what was agreeable 
and pleasant. 

“We want to knoAV if you play croquet, Mr. O’Shea?” 
said Nina, as he entered. ‘‘And we want also to know, 
are you a captain, or a Ritt-Meister, or a major? You can 
scarcely be a colonel.” 

“Your last guess I answer first. I am only a lieutenant, 
and even that very lately. As to croquet, if it be not your 
foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, I never even saw it.” 


AN EVENING IN THE DIIAWING-KOOM. 


311 


“ It is not my foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, Herr 
Lieutenant,” said she, pertly; “but I guessed already you 
had never heard of it.” 

“It is an out-of-door affair,” said Dick, indolently, 
“made for the diffusion of worked petticoats and Balmoral 
boots.” 

“I should say it is the game of billiards brought down to 
universal suffrage and the million,” lisped out Walpole. 

“Faith,” cried old Kearney, “I ’d say it was just football 
with a stick.” 

“At all events,” said Kate, “we purpose to have a grand 
match to-morrow. Mr. Walpole and I are against Nina and 
Dick, and we are to draw lots for you, Mr. O’Shea.” 

“My position, if I understand it aright, is not a flattering 
one,” said he, laughing. 

“We ’ll take him,” cried Nina, at once. “I ’ll give him 
a private lesson in the morning, and I ’ll answer for his 
performance. These creatures,” added she in a whisper, 
“are so drilled in Austria you can teach them anything.” 

Now, as the words were spoken, Gorman caught them, 
and drawing close to her, “I do hope I ’ll justify that flat- 
tering opinion.” But her only recognition was a look of 
half-defiant astonishment at his boldness. 

A very noisy discussion now ensued as to whether croquet 
was'worth}^ to be called a game or not, and what were its 
laws and rules, — points which Gorman followed with due 
attention, but very little profit; all Kate’s good sense and 
clearness being cruelly dashed by Nina’s ingenious interrup- 
tions, and Walpole’s attempts to be smart and witty, even 
where opportunity scarcely offered the chance. 

“Next to looking on at the game,” cried old Kearney, at 
last, “the most tiresome thing I know of is to hear it talked 
over. Come, Nina, and give me a song.” 

“What shall it be, uncle?” said she, as she opened the 
piano. 

“Something Irish, I’d say, if I were to choose for my- 
self. We ’ve plenty of old tunes, Mr. Walpole,” said Kear- 
ney, turning to that gentleman, “that rebellion, as you call 
it, has never got hold of. There ’s ‘ Cushla Macree ’ and 
the ‘ Cailan deas cruidhte na Mbo. ’ ” 


312 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Very like bard swearing that,” said Walpole to Nina; 
but bis simper and bis soft accent were only met by a cold 
blank look, as tbongb sbe bad not understood bis liberty in 
addressing ber. Indeed, in ber distant manner and even 
repelling coldness, there was wbat might have disconcerted 
any composure less consummate than bis own. It was, 
however, evidently Walpole’s aim to assume that sbe felt 
ber relation towards him, and not altogether without some 
cause; while sbe, on ber part, desired to repel the insinua- 
tion by a show of utter indilfereuce. Sbe would willingly, 
in this contingency, have encouraged ber cousin, Dick 
Kearney, and even led him on to little displays of attention; 
but Dick held aloof, as though not knowing the meaning of 
this favorable turn towards him. He would not be cheated 
by coquetry. How many men are of this temper, and who 
never understand that it is by surrendering ourselves to 
numberless little voluntary deceptions of this sort we arrive 
at intimacies the most real and most truthful. 

Sbe next tried Gorman, and here ber success was com- 
plete. All those womanly prettinesses, which are so many 
modes of displaying graceful attraction of voice, look, 
gesture, or attitude, were especially dear to him. Not only 
they gave beauty its chief charm, but they constituted a 
sort of game, whose address was quickness of eye, readiness 
of perception, prompt reply, and that refined tact that can 
follow out one thought in a conversation just as }’Ou follow 
a melody through a mass of variations. 

Perhaps the young soldier did not yield himself the less 
readily to these captivations that Kate Kearney’s manner 
towards him was studiously cold and ceremonious. 

“The other girl is more like the old friend,” muttered he, 
as he chatted on with her about Rome and Florence and 
Venice, imperceptibly gliding into the language which the 
names of places suggested. 

“If any had told me that I ever could have talked thus 
freely and openly with an Austrian soldier, I ’d not have 
believed him,” said she at length, “ for all my s^unpathies 
in Italy were with the national party.” 

“But we were not the ‘ Barbari ’ in your recollection, 
]\Iademoiselle,” said he. “We were out of Italy before you 
could have any feeling for either party.” 


AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


313 


“ The tradition of all your cruelties has survived you, aud 

I am sure if you were wearing your white coat still, I’d hate 
you.” 

“ T ou are giving me another reason to ask for a longer 
leave of absence,” said he, bowing courteously, 

“ And this leave of yours, — how long does it last? ” 

“I am afraid to own to myself. llednesday fortnight is 
the end of it ; that is, it gives me four days after that to 
reach Vienna.” 

‘‘ And, presenting yourself in humble guise before your 
Colonel, to say, ‘ Ich melde mich gehorsamst.’ ” 

“ Not exactly that, but something like it.” 

‘‘I’ll be the Herr Oberst, lieutenant,” said she, laughing ; 
“ so come forward now and clap your heels together, aud let 
us hear how you utter your few syllables in true abject 
fashion. I’ll sit here, and receive you.” As she spoke, she 
threw herself into an arm-chair, and assuming a look of intense 
hauteur and defiance, affected to stroke an ima^jinary moustache 
with one hand, while with the other she waved a haughty 
gesture of welcome. 

“ I have outstayed my leave,” muttered Gorman, in a 
tremulous tone. “ I hope my colonel, with that bland 
mercy which characterizes him, will forgive my fault and 
let me ask his pardon.” And with this he knelt down on 
one knee before her and kissed her hand. 

“ What liberties are these, sir ? ” cried she, so angrily that 
it was not easy to say whether the anger was not real. 

“ It is the latest rule introduced into our service,” said 
he, with mock humility. 

“ Is that a comedy they are acting yonder,” said Walpole, 
“ or is it a proverb ? ” 

“ AYhatever the drama,” replied Kate, coldly, “ I don’t 
think they want' a public.” 

“ You may go back to your duty, Herr Lieutenant,” said 
Nina, j3roudly, and with a significant glance towards Kate. 
“ Indeed, I suspect you have been rather neglecting it of 
late.” And with this she sailed majestically away towards 
the end of the room. 

“ I wish I could provoke even that much of jealousy from 
the other,” muttered Gorman to himself, as he bit his lip in 


314 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


passion. And certainly, if a look and manner of calm 
unconcern meant anything, there was little that seemed less 
likely. 

“ 1 am glad you are going to the piano, Nina,” said Kate. 
“ Mr. AValpole has been asking me by what artifice you could 
be induced to sing something of Mendelssohn.” 

“1 am going to sing an Irish ballad for that Austrian 
patriot, who, like his national poet, thinks ‘ Ireland a beau- 
tiful country to live out of.’ ” Though a haughty toss of her 
head accompanied these words, there was a glance in her 
eye towards Gorman that plainly invited a renewal of their 
half-hirting hostilities. 

“ When I left it, you had not been here,” said he, with an 
obsequious tone, and an air of deference only too marked in 

its courtesv. 

%/ 

A slight, very faint blush on her cheek showed that she 
rather resented than accepted the flattery ; but she appeared 
to be occupied in looking through the music-books, and 
made no rejoinder. 

‘‘ We want iVIendelssohn, Nina,” said Kate. 

“ Or at least Spohr,” added Walpole. 

“I never accept dictation about what I sing,” muttered 
Nina, only loud enough to be overheard by Gorman. 
“People don’t tell you what theme you are to talk on; 
they don’t presume to sa}^, ‘Be serious or be witty.’ They 
don’t tell you to come to the aid of their sluggish natures 
by passion, or to dispel their dreariness by flights of fancy ; 
and why are they to dare all this to us who speak through 
song ? ” 

“Just because you alone can do these things,” said Gor- 
man, in the same low voice as she had spoken in. 

“Can I help you in your search, dearest?” said Kate, 
coming over to the piano. 

“ JMiglit I hope to be of use? ” asked Walpole. 

“Mr. O’Shea wants me to sing something for Jthn/’ said 
Nina, coldly. “ What is it to be? ” asked she of Gorman. 

With the readiness of one who could respond to any 
sudden call upon his tact, Gorman at once took up a piece of 
music from the mass before him, and said, “Here is wliat I 
e c foi . I VI was a little Neapolitan ballad. 


AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


315 


of no peculiar beauty, but one of those simple melodies in 
which the rapid transition from deep feeling to a wild, almost 
reckless gayety imparts all the character. 

\es, I ’ll sing that,” said Nina; and almost in the same 
breath the notes came tloating through the air, slow and sad 
at first, as though laboring under some heavy sorrow, the 
very s^dlables faltered on her lii)s like a grief strugoliim' for 
utterance, — when, just as a thrilling cadence died slowly 
away, she burst forth into the wildest and merriest strain, 
something so impetuous in gayety that the singer seemed to 
lose all control of expression, and floated away in sound with 
every caprice of enraptured imagination. W hen in the very 
whirlwind of this impetuous gladness, as though a memory 
of a terrible sorrow had suddenly crossed her, she ceased ; 
then, in tones of actual agony, her voice rose to a cry of such 
utter misery as despair alone could utter. The sounds 
died slowly away, as though lingeringly. Two bold chords 
followed, and she was silent. 

None spoke in the room. Was this real passion, or was it 
the mere exhibition of an accomplished artist, who' could 
call up expression at will, as easily as a painter could 
heighten color ? Kate Kearney evidentl}^ believed the former, 
as her heaving chest and her tremulous lip betrayed ; while 
the cold, simpering smile on AValpole’s face, and the “ Brava, 
bravissima,” in which he broke the silence, vouched how he 
had interpreted that show of emotion. 

“If that is singing, I wonder what is crying,” cried old 
Kearney, while he wiped his eyes, very angry at his own 
weakness. “ And now will any one tell me what it was 
all about?” 

“A }mung girl, sir,” replied Gorman, “who by a great 
effort has rallied herself to dispel her sorrow and be merry, 
suddenly remembers that her sweetlieart may not love her ; 
and the more she dwells on the thought, the more firmly she 
believes it. That was the cry, ‘ He never loved me,’ that 
went to all our hearts.” 

“ Faith, then, if Nina has to say that,” said the old man, 
“ Heaven help tlie others.” 

“ Indeed, uncle, jmu are more gallant than all these young 
gentlemen,” said Nina, rising, and approaching him. 


316 


LORI) KILGOBBIX. 


“ Why they are not all at your feet this moment is more 
than I can tell. They ’re always telling me the world is 
changed, and I begin to see it now.” 

“1 suspect, sir, it’s pretty much what it used to be,” 
lisped out Walpole. “ We are only less demonstrative than 
our fathers.” 

“ Just as I am less extravagant than mine,” cried Kil- 
gobbin, “ because I have not got it to spend.” 

I hope Mademoiselle Nina judges us more mercifully,” 
said Walpole. 

“ Is that song a favorite of yours? ” asked she of Gorman, 
without noticing Walpole’s remark in any way. 

“No,” said he, bluntly; “it makes me feel like a fool, 
and, I am afraid, look like one, too, when I hear it.” 

“ I ’m glad there ’s even that much blood in you,” cried old 
Kearney, who had caught the words. “ Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
England need never be afraid of the young generation.” 
“That seems to be a very painful thought to you, sir,” 
said Walpole. 

“And so it is,” replied he. “The lower we bend, the 
more you ’ll lay on us. It was your language, and what 
you call your civilization, broke us down first, and the 
little spirit that fought against either is fast djdng out of 
us.” 

“ Do you want Mr. Walpole to become a Fenian, papa?” 
asked Kate. 

“You see, they took him for one to-day,” broke in Dick, 
“when they came and carried off all his limorao-e.” 

“By the way,” interposed Walpole, “we must take care 
that that stupid blunder does not get into the local papers, 
or we shall have it circulated by the London press.” 

“ I have already thought of that,” said Dick, “ and I shall 
go into Moate to-morrow and see about it.” 

“Does that mean to say that you desert croquet?” said 
Nina, imperiously. 

“You have got Lieutenant O’Shea in my place, and a 
better player tlian me already.” 

“ I fear I must take my leave to-morrow,” said Gorman, 
with a touch of real sorrow, for in secret he knew not whither 
he was going. 


AN EVENING IN THE DKAWING-KOOM. 


317 


“ lYoiild your aunt not spare you to us for a few days?” 
said the old man. ‘‘ I am in no favor with her just now, but 
she would scarcely refuse what we would all deem a o-reat 
favor.” 

“ My aunt would not think the sacrifice too much for her,” 
said Gorman, trying to laugh at the conceit. 

“ You shall stay,” murmured Nina, in a tone only audible 
to him ; and by a slight bow he acknowledged the words as 
a command. 

“ I believe my best way,” said Gorman, gayly, “ will be to 
outstay my leave, and take m}'^ punishment, whatever it be, 
when 1 go back again.” 

“ That is military morality,” said Walpole, in a half- 
wdiisper to Kate, but to be overheard by Nina. We poor 
civilians don’t understand how to keep a debtor and credi- 
tor account with conscience.” 

“ Could you manage to provoke that man to quarrel with 
you? ” said Nina secretly to Gorman, while her eyes glanced 
towards Walpole. 

“I think I might; but what then? He wouldn’t fight, 
and the rest of England would shun me.” 

“ That is true,” said she, slowly. “ When any is injured 
here, he tries to make money out of it. I don’t suppose you 
want money ? ” 

“ Not earned in that fashion, certainly. But I think they 
are saying good-night.” 

“ They ’re always boasting about the man that found out 
the safety-lamp,” said old Kearney, as he moved away ; “but 
give me the fellow that invented a flat candlestick ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 

When Gorman reached his room, into which a rich flood 
of moonlight was streaming, he extinguished his candle, 
and, seating himself at the open window, lighted his cigar, 
seriously believing he was going to reflect on his present 
condition and forecast something of the future. Though 
he had spoken so cavalierly of outstaying his time, and 
accepting arrest afterwards, the jest was by no means so 
palatable no\v that he was alone, and could own to himself 
that the leave he possessed was the unlimited liberty to 
be houseless and a vagabond, to have none to claim, no 
roof to shelter him. 

His aunt’s law-agent, the same Mr. IMcKeown who acted 
for Lord Kilgobbin, had once told Gorman that all the King’s 
County property of the O’Sheas was entailed upon him, and 
that his aunt had no power to alienate it. It is true the old 
lady disputed this position, and so strongly resented even 
allusion to it, tliat, for the sake of inheriting that twelve 
thousand pounds she possessed in Dutcli stock, McKeown 
warned Gorman to avoid anything that might impl}^ his 
being aware of this fact. 

Wliether a general distrust of all legal people and their 
assertions was the reason, or whether mere abstention from 
the topic had impaired the force of its truth, or Avliether — 
more likely than either — he would not suffer himself to 
question the intentions of one to whom he owed so much, 
certain is it young O’Shea almost felt as much averse to 
the belief as the old lad}^ herself, and resented the thought 
of its being true, as of something that would detract from 
the spirit of the affection she had always borne him, and 
that he repaid by a love as faithful. 


SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 


319 


“No, no. Confound it!” he would say to himself. 
“Aunt Betty loves me, and money has no share in the 
affection 1 bear her. If she knew I must be her heir, 
she ’d say so frankly and freely. She ’d scorn the notion 
of doling oat to me as benevolence what one day would 
be my own by right. She is proud and intolerant enough, 
but she is seldom unjust, — never so willingly and con- 
sciously. If, then, she has not said O’Shea’s Barn must 
be mine some time, it is because she knows well it cannot 
be true. Besides, this very last step of hers, this hauglity 
dismissal of me from her house, implies the possession of 
a power which she would not dare to exercise if she were 
but a life-tenant of the property. Last of all, had she 
speculated ever so remotely on my being the proprietor 
of Irish landed property, it was most unlikely she would 
so strenuously have encouraged me to pursue my career 
as an Austrian soldier, and turn all my thoughts to my 
prospects under the Empire.” 

In fact, she never lost the opportunity of reminding him 
how unfit he was to live in Ireland or amongst Irishmen. 

Such refiections as I have brieflv hinted at here took him 
some time to arrive at, for his thoughts did not come freely, 
or rapidly make place for others. The sum of them, how- 
ever, was that he was thrown upon the world, and just at 
the very threshold of life, and when it held out its more 
alluring prospects. 

There is something peculiarly galling to the man who is 
wincing under the pang of poverty to find that the world 
regards him as rich and well off, and totally beyond the 
accidents of fortune. It is not simply that he feels how his 
every action will be misinterpreted and mistaken, and a 
spirit of thrift, if not actual shabbiness, ascribed to all 
that he does, but he also regards himself as a sort of im- 
position or sham, who has gained access to a place he has 
no right to occupy, and to associate on terms of equality 
with men of tastes and habits and ambitions totally above 
his own. It was in this spirit he remembered Nina’s chance 
expression, “I don’t suppose you want money!” There 
could be no other meaning in the phrase than some fore- 
gone conclusion about his being a man of fortune. Of 


820 


LOUD KILGOBBIX. 


course she acquired this notion from those around her. As 
a stranger to Ireland, all she knew, or thought she knew, 
had been conveyed by others. “I don’t suppose you want 
money” was another way of saying, “You are your aunt’s 
heir. You are the future owner of the O’Shea estates. No 
vast property, it is true ; but quite enough to maintain the 
position of a gentleman.” 

“ Who knows how much of this Lord Kilgobbin or his 
son Dick believed?” thought he. “But certainly my old 
pla3"fellow Kate has no faith in the matter, or if she have, 
it has little weight with her in her estimate of me. 

“ It was in this very room I was lodged something like 
five 3"ears ago. It was at this very window I used to sit at 
night, weaving Heaven knows what dreams of a future. I 
was very much in love in those days, and a very honest 
and loyal love it was. I wanted to be very great, and 
very gallant, and distinguished, and, above all, very rich ; 
but onlv for hei\ only that she might be surrounded with 
every taste and luxury that became her, and that she should 
share them with me. I knew well she was better than me, 
— better in every way : not only purer and simpler and 
more gentle, but more patient, more enduring, more tena- 
cious of what was true, and more decidedl}^ the enemy of 
what was merely expedient. Then, was she not proud? 
not with the pride of birth or station, or of an old name 
and a time-honored house, but proud that whatever she did 
or said amongst the tenantiy or the neighbors, none ever 
• ventured to question or even qualify the intention that sug- 
gested it. The utter impossibilit}^ of ascribing a double 
motive to her, or of imagining anj^ object in what she coun- 
selled but the avowed one, gave her a pride that accom- 
panied her through every hour of life. 

“ Last of all, she believed in me^ — believed I was going 
to be one day something very famous and distinguished : 
a gallant soldier, whose very presence gave courage to the 
men who followed him, and with a name repeated in honor 
over Europe. The day was too short for these fancies, for 
they grew actually as we fed them, and the wildest flight of 
imagination led us on to the end of the time when there would 
be but one hope, one ambition, and one heart between us. 


SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 


321 


“ I am convinced that had any one at that time hinted to 
her that I was to inherit the O’Shea estates, he would have 
dealt a most dangerous blow to her affection for me. The 
romance of that unknown future had a great share in our 
compact. And then we were so serious about it all, — the 
very gravity it impressed being an ecstas}^ to our young 
hearts in the thought of self-importance and responsibility. 
Nor were we without our little tiffs, — those lovers’ quarrels 
that reveal what a terrible civil war can rage within the 
heart that rebels against itself. I know the very spot where 
we quarrelled ; I could point to the miles of way we walked 
side by side without a word ; and oh ! was it not on that 
very bed I have passed the night, sobbing till I thought my 
heart would break, all because I had not fallen at her feet 
and begged her forgiveness ere we parted? Not that she 
was without her self-accusings, too ; for I remember one 
way in which she expressed sorrow for having done me 
wrong was to send me a shower of rose-leaves from her 
little terraced garden ; and as they fell in shoals across my 
window, what a balm and bliss they shed over my heart ! 
Would I. not give every hope I have to bring it all back 
again? to live it over once more, — to lie at her feet in the 
grass, affecting to read to her, but really watching her long 
black lashes as they rested on her cheek, or that quivering 
lip as it trembled with emotion. How I used to detest that 
work which employed the blue-veined hand I loved to hold 
wdthin my own, kissing it at every pause in the reading, or 
whenever I could pretext a reason to question her! And 
now here I am in the self-same place, amidst the same scenes 
and objects. Nothing changed but herself! She, however, 
will remember nothing of the past, or if she does, it is with 
repugnance and regret ; her manner to me is a sort of cold 
defiance, not to dare to revive our old intimacy, nor to fancy 
that I can take up our acquaintanceship from the past. I 
almost fancied she looked resentfully at the Greek girl for 
the freedom to which she admitted me, — not but there was 
in the other’s coquetiy the very stamp of that levity other 
women are so ready to take offence at ; in fact, it constitutes 
amongst women exactly the same sort of outrage, the same 
breach of honor and loyalty, as cheating at play does 


822 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


amongst men, and the offenders are as much socially out- 
lawed in one case as in the other. I wonder, am I what is 
called falling in love with the Greek, — that is, I wonder, 
have the charms of her astonishing beauty, and the grace of 
her manner, and the thousand seductions of her voice, her 
gestures, and her walk, above all, so captivated me that I do 
not want to go back on the past, and may hope soon to 
repay Miss Kate Kearney by an indifference the ecpial of her 
own? I don’t think so. Indeed I feel that even when 
Nina was interesting me most, I was stealing seci'et glances 
towards Kate, and cursing that fellow Walpole for the way 
he was engaging her attention. Little the Greek suspected, 
when she asked if ‘I could not fix a quarrel on him,’ with 
what a motive it was that my heart jumped at the sugges- 
tion ! He is so studiously ceremonious and distant with me ; 
he seems to think I am not one of those to be admitted to 
closer intimacy. I know that English theory of ‘ the unsafe 
man,’ by which people of unquestionable courage avoid con- 
tact with all schooled to other ways and habits than their 
own. 1 hate it. ‘ I am unsafe,’ to his thinking. Well, if 
having no reason to care for safety be sufficient, he is not 
far wrong. Dick Kearney, too, is not very cordial. lie 
scarcely seconded his father’s invitation to me, and what 
he did say was merely what courtesy obliged. So that in 
reality, though the old lord was hearty and good-natured, I 
believe I am here now because Mademoiselle Nina com- 
manded me, rather than from any other reason. If this be 
true, it is, to say the least, a sorry compliment to my sense 
of delicacy. Her words were, ‘ You shall stay,’ and it is 
upon this I am staying.” 

As though the air of tlie room grew more hard to breathe 
with this thought before him, he arose and leaned half-way 
out of the window. 

As he did so, his ear caught the sound of voices. It was 
Kate and Nina, who were talking on the terrace above his 
head. 

“ I declare, Nina,” said Kate, “ you have stripped every 
leaf off my poor ivy-geranium ; there ’s nothing left of it but 
bare branches.” 

“ There goes the last handful,” said the other, as she threw 


SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 


323 


them over the parapet, some falling on Gorman as he leaned 
out. “ It was a bad habit I learned from }^ourself, child. I 
remember when I came here, you used to do this each night, 
like a religious rite.” 

“I suppose they were the dried or withered leaves that I 
threw away,” said Kate, with a half irritation in her voice. 

“No, they were not. They were oftentimes from your 
prettiest roses, and as I watched you, I saw it was in no 
distraction or inadvertence you were doing this, for you were 
generally silent and thoughtful some time before, and there 
was even an air of sadness about you, as though a painful 
thought was bringing its gloomy memories.” 

“ What an object of interest I have been to you without 
suspecting it ! ” said Kate, coldly. 

“It is true,” said the other, in the same tone ; “ they who 
make few confidences suggest much ingenuity. If you had 
a meaning in this act and told me what it was, it is more 
than likely I had forgotten^ all about it ere now. You pre- 
ferred secrecy, and you made me curious.” 

“There was nothing to reward curiosity,” said she, in 
the same measured tone ; then, after a moment, she added : 
“ I’m sure I never sought to ascribe some hidden motive to 
yon. When you left my plants leafless, I was quite content 
to believe that you were mischievous without knowing it.” 

“I read you differently,” said Nina. “When you do 
mischief, you mean mischief. Now I became so — so — what 
shall I call it? — intriguee about this little ‘ fetish ’ of yours 
that I remember well the night you first left off and never 
resumed it.” 

“ And when was that? ” asked Kate, carelessly. 

“ On a certain Friday, the night Miss O’Shea dined here 
last ; was it not a Friday ? ” 

“ Frida3^s, we fancy, are unlucky days,” said Kate, in a 
voice of eas}" indifference. 

“ I wonder which are the lucky ones? ” said Nina, sighing. 
“ They are certainly not put down in the Irish almanac. 
By the wa^q is not this a Friday? ” 

“ Mr. O’Shea will not call it amongst his unlucky days,” 
said Kate, laughingly. 

“ I almost think I like your Austrian,” said the other. 


324 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Only don’t call him my Austrian.” 

“ AVell, he was yours till you threw him off. No, don’t 
be angry ; I am only talking in that careless slang we all 
use when we mean nothing, just as people employ counters 
instead of money at cards ; but I like him. He has that easy 
flippancy in talk that asks for no effort to follow, and he 
says his little nothings nicely, and he is not too eager as to 
great ones, or too energetic, which you all are here. I like 
him.” 

“ I fancied you liked the eager and enthusiastic people, 
and that you felt a warm interest in Donogan’s fate.” 

“ Yes, I do hope they’ll not catch him. It would be too 
horrid to think of any one we had known being hanged ! 
And then, poor fellow, he was very much in love.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” sighed out Kate. 

“Not but it was the only gleam of sunlight in his exist- 
ence, he could go away and fanc}^ that, with Heaven knows 
what chances of fortune, he might have won me.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” cried Kate, more sorrowfullv than before- 
“No, far from it, but very ‘happy fellow ’ if he could 
feed his heart with such a delusion.” 

“ And you think it fair to let him have this delusion? ” 
“Of course I do. I’d no more rob him of it than I’d 
snatch a life-buoy from a drowning man. Do you fancy, 
child, that the swimmer will always go about with the corks 
that have saved his life ? ” 

“ Tliese mock analogies are sorry arguments,” said Kate. 
“ Tell me, does 3"our Austrian sing? I see he understands 
music, but I hope he can sing.” 

“ I can tell }"ou next to nothing of n\v Austrian, — if he 
must be called so. It is five ^^ears since we met, and all I 
know is how little like he seems to what he once was.” 

“I’m sure he is vastl}^ improved ; a hundred times better 
mannered ; with more ease, more quickness, and more readi- 
ness in conversation. I like him.” 

“ I trust he’ll find out his great good fortune, — that is, if 
it be not a delusion.” 

For a few seconds there was a silence, — a silence so com- 
plete that Gorman could hear the rustle of a dress as Nina 
moved from her place, and seated herself on the battlement 


SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 


325 


of the terrace. He then could catch the low murmuring 
sounds of her voice, as she hummed an air to herself, and at 
length traced it to be the song she had sung that same 
evening in the drawing-room. The notes came gradually 
more and more distinct, the tones swelled out into greater 
fulness, and at last, with one long-sustained cadence of 
thrilling passion, she cried, “Non mi amava — non mi 
amava ! ” with an expression of heart-breaking sorrow, the 
last syllables seeming to linger on the lips as if a hope was 
deserting them forever. “Oh, non mi amava! ” cried she, 
and her voice trembled as though the avowal of her despair 
was the last effort of her strength. Slowly and faintly the 
sounds died away, while Gorman, leaning out to the utmost 
to catch the dying notes, strained his hearing to drink them 
in. All was still, and then suddenly with a wild roulade 
that sounded at first like the passage of a musical scale, she 
burst out into a fit of laughter, crying, “Non mi amava,” 
through the sounds, in a half-frantic mockery. “No, no, 
mon mi amava,” laughed she out, as she walked back into 
the room. The window was now closed with a heavy bang, 
and all was silent in the house. 

“And these are the affections we break our hearts for! ” 
cried Gorman, as he threw himself on his bed and covered 
his face with both his hands. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


THE HEAD CONSTABLE. 

The Chief Constable, — or, to use the irreverent designation 
of the neighborhood, the Head Peeler, — who had carried away 
Walpole’s luggage and papers, no sooner discovered the 
grave mistake he had committed than he hastened to restore 
them, and was waiting personally at the castle to apologize 
for the blunder, long before any of the family had come 
downstairs. His indiscretion might cost him his place; 
and Captain Curtis, who had to maintain a wife and family, 
three saddle-horses, and a green uniform with more gold on 
it than a field-marshal’s, felt duly anxious and uneasy for 
what he had done. 

“ Who is that gone down the road ? ” asked he, as he 
stood at the window, while a woman was setting the room 
in order. 

“Sure, it’s Miss Kate taking the dogs out. Isn’t she 
always the first up of a morning?” Though the Captain 
had little personal acquaintance with Miss Kearney, he knew 
her well by reputation, and knew, therefore, that he might 
safely approach her to ask a favor. He overtook her at 
once, and in a few words made known the ditiiculty in 
which he found himself. 

“Is it not, after all, a mere passing mistake, which once 
apologized for is forgotten altogether?” asked she. “Mr. 
Walpole is surely not a person to bear any malice for such 
an incident?” 

“I don’t know that. Miss Kearney,” said he, doubtingly. 
“His papers have been thoroughly ransacked, and old jMr. 
Flood, the Tory magistrate, has taken copies of several 
letters and documents, all, of course, under the impression 
that they formed part of a treasonable correspondence.” 


THE HEAD CONSTABLE. 


327 


‘‘“Was it not very evident that the papers could not have 
belonged to a Fenian leader? Was not any mistake in the 
matter easily avoided?” 

“Not at once, because there was, first of all, a sort of 
account of the insurrectionary movement here, with a num- 
ber of queries, such as, ‘ Who is M ? ’ ‘ Are F. Y 

and M'Causland the same person?’ ‘What connection 
exists between the Meath outrages and the late events 

in Tipperary?’ ‘How is B to explain his conduct 

sufliciently to be retained in the Commission of the Peace? ’ 
In a word. Miss Kearney, all the troublesome details by 
which a Ministry have to keep their own supporters in 
decent order, are here hinted at, if not more, and it lies 
with a batch of red-hot Tories to make a terrible scandal 
out of this affair.” 

“It is graver than I suspected,” said she, thoughtfully. 

“And I may lose my place,” muttered Curtis, “unless, 
indeed, you would condescend to say a word for me to Mr. 
M^alpole.” 

“Willingly, if it were of any use; but I think my cousin, 
IMademoiselle Kostalergi, would be likelier of success, and 
here she comes.” 

Nina came forward at that moment, with that indolent 
grace of movement with which she swept the greensward of 
the lawn as though it were the carpet of a saloon. With a 
brief introduction of ,Mr. Curtis, her cousin Kate in a few 
words conveyed the embarrassment of his present position, 
and his hope that a kindly intercession might avert his 
danger. 

“What droll people you must be not to find out that the 
letters of a Viceroy’s secretary could not be the correspond- 
ence of a rebel leader! ” said Nina, superciliously. 

“I have already told Miss Kearney how that fell out,” 
said he; “and I assure you there was enough in those 
papers to mystify better and clearer heads.” 

“But you read the addresses, and saw how the letters 
began, ‘ My dear Mr. Walpole,’ or ‘ Dear Walpole ’ ? ” 

“And thought they had been purloined. Have I not found 
‘ Dear Clarendon ’ often enough in the same packet witli 
cross-bones and a coffin ? ” 


328 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“What a couutry! ” said Nina, with a sigh. 

“Very like Greece, I suppose,” said Kate, tartly; then, 
suddenly, “Will you undertake to make this gentleman’s 
peace with Mr. Walpole, and show how the whole was a 
piece of ill-directed zeal ? ” 

“Indiscreet zeal.” 

“Well, indiscreet, if you like it better.” 

“And you fancied, then, that all the line linen and purple 
you carried away were the properties of a Head-Centre ? ” 
“We thought so.” 

“And the silver objects of the dressing-table, and the 
ivory inlaid with gold, and the trifles studded with 
turquoise ? ” 

“They might have been Donogan’s. Do you know. 
Mademoiselle, that this same Donogan w’as a man of for- 
tune, and in all the society of the first men at Oxford, when 
— a mere boy at the time — he became a rebel? ” 

“How nice of him! What a fine fellow! ” 

“I’d say what a fool!” continued Curtis. “He had no 
need to risk his neck to achieve a station; the thing was 
done for him. He had a good house and a good estate in 
Kilkenny; I have caught salmon in the river that washes 
the foot of his lawn.” 

“And what has become of it? Does he still own it?” 
“Not an acre, — not a rood of it; sold every square vard 
of it to throw the money into the Fenian treasury. Rifled 
artillery, Colt’s revolvers. Remington’s, and Parrot guns 
have walked off with the broad acres.” 

“Fine fellow, — a fine fellow!” cried Nina, enthusiasti- 
cally. 

“That fine fellow has done a deal of mischief,” said Kate, 
thoughtfully. 

“He has escaped, has he not? ” asked Nina. 

“We hope not; that is, we know that he is about to sail 
for St. John’s by a clipper now in P>elfast, and we shall 
have a fast steam-corvette ready to catch her in the Chan- 
nel. He ’ll be under Yankee colors, it is true, and claim an 
American citizenship; but we must run risks sometimes, 
and this is one of those times.” 

“But you know where he is now? Why not apprehend 
him on shore ? ” 


THE HEAD CONSTABLE. 


329 


“The very thing we do not know, Mademoiselle. I ’d 
rather be sure of it than have five thousand pounds in my 
hand. Some say he is here, in the neighborhood; some 
that he is gone south; others declare that he has reached 
Liverpool. All we really do know is about the ship that 
he means to sail in, and on which the second mate has 
informed us.” 

“And all your boasted activity is at fault,” said she, inso- 
lently, “when you have to own you cannot track him.” 
“Nor is it so easy. Mademoiselle, where a whole popula- 
tion befriend and feel for him.” 

“And if they do, with what face can you persecute what 
has the entire sympathy of a nation ? ” 

“Don’t provoke answers which are sure not to satisfy 
'you, and which you could but half comprehend; but tell Mr. 
Curtis you will use your influence to make Mr. Malpole 
forget this mishap.” 

“But I do want to go to the bottom of this question. I 
will insist on learning why people rebel here.” 

“In that case I’ll go home to breakfast, and I ’ll be quite 
satisfied if I see you at luncheon,” said Kate. 

“Do, pray, Mr. Curtis, tell me all about it. Why do 
some people shoot the others who are just as much Irish as 
themselves? Why do hungry people kill the cattle and 
never eat them? And why don’t the English go away and 
leave a country where nobody likes them? If there be a 
reason for these things, let me hear it.” 

“By- by,” said Kate, waving her hand, as she turned 
away. 

“You are so ungenerous,” cried Nina, hurrying after her; 
“I am a stranger, and would naturally like to learn all that 
I could of the country and the people; here is a gentleman 
full of the very knowledge I am seeking. He knows all 
about these terrible Fenians. What will they do with Don- 
ogan if they take him? ” 

“Transport him for life; they ’ll not hang him, I think.” 
“That ’s worse than hanging. I mean — that is — Miss 
Kearney would rather they’d hang him.” 

“I have not said so,” replied Kate; “and I don’t suspect 
I think so, either.” 


330 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Well,” said Nina, after a pause, “let us go back to 
breakfast. You’ll see Mr. Walpole; be ’s sure to be down 
by that time ; and I ’ll tell him what you wish is that he 
must not think any more of the incident; that it was a 
piece of official stupidity, done, of course, out of the best 
motives, and that if he should cut a ridiculous figure at the 
end, he has only himself to blame for the worse than 
ambiguity of his private papers.” 

“I do not know that I’d exactly say that,” said Kate, 
who felt some difficulty in not laughing at the horror-struck 
expression of Mr. Curtis’s face. 

‘‘Well, then. I’ll say — this was what I wished to tell 
you, but my cousin Kate interposed and suggested that a 
little adroit flattery of you, and some small coquetries that 
might make you believe you were charming, would be the 
readiest mode to make you forget anything disagreeable, 
and she would charge herself with the task.” 

“Do so,” said Kate, calmly; “and let us now go back to 
breakfast.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


SOME IRISHRIES. 

That which the English irreverently call “chaff” enters 
largely as an element into Irish life; and when Walpole 
stigmatized the habit to Joe Atlee as essentially that of the 
smaller island, he was not far wrong. I will not say that 
it is a high order of wit, very elegant or very refined ; but 
it is a strong incentive to good humor, a vent to good 
spirits; and being a weapon which every Irishman can 
wield in some fashion or other, establishes that sort of 
joust which prevailed in the mUee tournaments, and where 
each tilted with whom he pleased. 

Any one who has witnessed the progress of an Irish trial, 
even when the crime was of the very gravest, cannot fail to 
have been struck by the continual clash of smart remark 
and smarter rejoinder between the bench and the bar; 
showing how men feel the necessity of ready-wittedness, 
and a promptitude to repel attack, in which even the pris- 
oner in the dock takes his share, and cuts his joke at the 
most critical moment of his existence. 

The Irish theatre always exhibits traits of this national 
taste ; but a dinner-party, with its due infusion of barris- 
ters, is the best possible exemplification of this give and 
take, which, even if it had no higher merit, is a powerful 
ally of good humor, and the sworn foe to everything like 
over-irritability or morbid self-esteem. Indeed, I could 
not wish a very conceited man, of a somewhat grave tem- 
perament and distant demeanor, a much heavier punishment 
than a course of Irish dinner-parties; for even though he 
should come out scathless himself, the outrages to his sense 
of propriety and the insults to his ideas of taste would be 
a severe suffering. 


332 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


That breakfast-table at Kilgobbin had some heavy hearts 
around the board. There was not, w'ith the exception of 
Walpole, one there who had not, in the doubts that beset 
his future, grave cause for anxiety ; and yet to look at, still 
more to listen to them, you would have said that Walpole 
alone had any load of care upon his heart, and that the 
others were a light-hearted, happy set of people, with whom 
the world went always well. No cloud! — not even a 
shadow to darken the road before them. Of this levity, — 
for I suppose I must give it a hard name, — the source of 
much that is best and worst amongst us, our English rulers 
take no account, and are often as ready to charge us with a 
conviction which was no more than a caprice as they are 
to nail us down to some determination which was simply 
a drollery ; and until some intelligent traveller does for us 
what I lately perceived a clever tourist did for the Japanese, 
in explaining their modes of thought, impulses, and pas- 
sions to the English, I despair of our being better known in 
Downing Street than we now are. 

Captain Curtis — for it is right to give him his rank — 
was fearfully nervous and uneasy; and though he tried to 
eat his breakfast with an air of unconcern and carelessness, 
he broke his egg with a tremulous hand, and listened with 
painful eagerness every time Walpole spoke. 

“I wish somebody would send us the ' Standard.’ When 
it is known that the Lord Lieutenant’s secretarv has turned 
F’enian,” said Kilgobbin, “won’t there be a grand Tory 
outcry over the unprincipled Whigs 1 ” 

“The papers need know nothing whatever of the inci- 
dent,” interposed Curtis, anxiously, “if old Flood is not 
busy enough to inform them.” 

“Who is old Flood?” asked Walpole. 

“A Tory J. P. who has copied out a considerable share 
of your correspondence,” said Kilgobbin. 

“And four letters in a lady’s hand,” added Dick, ‘‘that 
he imagines to be a treasonable correspondence by sym- 
bol.” 

“I hope Mr. Walpole,” said Kate, “will rather accept 
felony to the law than falsehood to the lady.” 

“You don’t mean to say — ” began Walpole, angrily; 


SOME IRISHRIES. 333 

then correcting his irritable manner, he added, “Am I to 
suppose my letters have been read?” 

■ ‘‘Well, roughly looked through,” said Curtis. “Just a 
glance here and there to catch what they meant.” 

“Which I must say was quite unnecessary,” said Wal- 
pole, haughtily. 

“It was a sort of journal of yours,” blundered out Curtis, 
who had a most unhappy knack of committing himself, 
“that they opened first, and they saw an entry with Kilgob- 
bin Castle at the top of it, and the date last July.” 

“There was nothing political in that, I ’m sure,” said 
Walpole. 

“No, not exactly, but a trifle rebellious all the same; the 
words ‘ we this evening learned a Fenian song, “The time 
to begin,” and rather suspect it is time to leave off; the 
Greek better-looking than ever, and more dangerous.’ ” 
Curtis’s last words were drowned in the lauo'h that now 
shook the table; indeed, except Walpole and Nina herself, 
they actually roared with laughter, which burst out afresh 
as Curtis, in his innocence, said, “We could not make out 
about the Greek, but we hoped we ’d find out later on.” 
“And I fervently trust you did,” said Kilgobbin. 

“I’m afraid not; there was something about somebody 
called Joe, that the Greek would n’t have him, or disliked 
him, or snubbed him, — indeed, I forget the words.” 

“You are quite right, sir, to distrust your memory,” said 
Walpole; “it has betrayed you most egregiousl}" already.” 
“On the contrary,” burst in Kilgobbin, “I am delighted 
with this proof of the Captain’s acuteness; tell us some- 
thing more, Curtis.” 

“There was then ‘ From the upper castle yard, Maude,’ 
whoever Maude is, ‘ says, “Deny it all, and say you never 
were there,” — not so easy as she thinks, with a broken 
right arm, and a heart not quite so whole as it ought to 
be.’” 

“There, sir, — with the permission of my friends here, — 
I will ask you to conclude your reminiscences of my private 
papers, which can have no possible interest for any one but 
myself.” 

“Quite wrong in that,” cried Kilgobbin, wiping his eyes. 


334 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


which had rim over with laughter. “There ’s nothing I ’d 
like so much as to hear more of them.” 

“What was that about his heart?” whispered Curtis to 
Kate; “was he wounded in the side also? ” 

“I believe so,” said she, dryly; “but I believe he has 
got quite over it by this time.” 

“Will you say a w^ord or two about me. Miss Kearney?” 
whispered he again. “I ’m not sure I improved my case by 
talking so freely; but as I saw you all so outspoken, I 
thought I’d fall into your ways.” 

“ Captain Curtis is much concerned for any fault he may 
have committed in this unhappy business,” said Kate; 
“and he trusts that the agitation and excitement of the 
Donogan escape will excuse him.” 

“That ’s your policy now,” interposed Kilgobbin. “Catch 
the Fenian fellow, and nobody will remember the other 
incident.” 

“We mean to give out that we know he has got clear away 
to America,” said Curtis, with an air of intense cunning. 
“And to lull his suspicions we have notices in print to say 
that no further rewards are to be given for his apprehension, 
so that he ’ll get a false confidence, and move about as 
before.” 

“ With such acuteness as vours on his trail, his arrest is 
certain,” said Walpole, gravely. 

“Well, I hope so, too,” said Curtis, in good faith for the 
compliment. “ Did n’t I take up nine men for the search of 
arms here, though there were only five? One of them 
turned evidence,” added he, gravely; “he was the fellow 
that swore Miss Kearney stood between you and the fire 
after they wounded you.” 

“You are determined to make Mr. Walpole your friend,” 
whispered Nina in his ear; “don’t you see, sir, that you are 
ruining yourself? ” 

“I have often been puzzled to explain how it was that 
crime went unpunished in Ireland,” said Walpole, senten- 
tiously. 

“And you know now? ” asked Curtis. 

“Yes; in a great measure, you have supplied me with 
the information.” 


SOME IRISHRIES. 


335 


“I believe it’s all right now,” muttered the Captain to 
Kate. “If the swell owns that 1 have put him up to a thing 
or two, he ’ll not throw me over.” 

“Would you give me three minutes of your time? ” whis- 
pered Gorman O’Shea to Lord Kilgobbin, as they arose 
from table. 

“Half an hour, my boy, or more if you want it. Come 
along with me now into my study, and we ’ll be safe there 
from all interruption.” 


CHAPTER XL VI. 


SAGE ADVICE. 

“So, then, you’re in a hobble with your aunt,” said Mr. 
Kearney, as he believed he had summed up the meaning of 
a very blundering explanation by Gorman O’Shea; “isn’t 
that it ? ” 

“Yes, sir; I suppose it comes to that.” 

“The old story, 1 ’ve no doubt, if we only knew it, — as 
old as the Patriarchs; the young ones go into debt, and 
think it very hard that the elders dislike the pa^dng it.” 
“No, no, I have no debts; at least, none to speak of.” 
“It’s a woman, then? Have you gone and married some 
good-looking girl with no fortune and less family? Who 
is she?” 

“Not even that, sir,” said he, half impatient at seeing 
how little attention had been bestowed on his narrative. 

“’Tis bad enough, no doubt,” continued the old man, 
still in pursuit of his own reflections ; “not but there ’s scores 
of things worse; for if a man is a good fellow at heart, he ’ll 
treat the woman all the better for what she has cost him. 
That is one of the good sides of selfishness; and when you 
have lived as long as me, Gorman, 3^011 ’ll find out how often 
there ’s something good to be squeezed out of a bad quality, 
just as though it were a bit of our nature that was depraved, 
but not gone to the devil entirel}\” 

“There is no woman in the case here, sir,” said O’Shea, 
bluntly", for these speculations onl^^ irritated him. 

“Ho, ho! I have it then,” cried the old man. “You ’ve 
been burning your fingers with rebellion. It ’s the Fenians 
have got a hold of j'ou.” 

“Nothing of the kind, sir. If 3^011 ’ll just read these 
two letters. The one is mine, written on the morning I 


SAGE ADVICE. 


337 


came here; here is my aunt’s. The first is not word for 
word as I sent it, but as well as I can remember. At all 
events, it will show how little I had provoked the answer. 
There, that ’s the document that came along with my trunks, 
and I have never heard from her since.” 

“ ‘ Dear Nephew,’ ” read out the old man, after patiently 
adjusting his spectacles, “ ‘ O’Shea’s Barn is not an inn,’ 
— And more’s the pity,” added he; “for it would be a 
model house of entertainment. You ’d say any one could 
have a sirloin of beef or a saddle of mutton ; but where Miss 
Betty gets hers is quite beyond me. ‘ Nor are the horses at 
public lively,’ ” read he out. “I think I may say, if they 
were, that Kattoo won’t be hired out again to the young 
man that took her over the fences. ‘As you seem fond of 
warnings,’ ” continued he, aloud, — “Ho, ho! that’s at you 
for coming over here to tell me about the search-warrant; 
and she tells you to mind your own business; and droll 
enough it is. We always fancy we’re saying an imperti- 
nence to a man when we tell him to attend to what concerns 
him most. It shows, at least, that we think meddling a 
luxury. And then she adds, ‘ Kilgobbin is welcome to you,’ 
and I can only say you are welcome to Kilgobbin, — ay, 
and in her own words, — ‘ with such regularity and order as 
the meals succeed.’ — ‘ All the luggage belonging to you,’ 
&c., and ‘ I am very respectfully, your Aunt.’ By my con- 
science, there was no need to sign it! That was old Miss 
Betty all the world over! ” and he laughed till his eyes ran 
over, though the rueful face of young O’Shea was staring at 
him all the time. “Don’t look so gloomy, O’Shea,” cried 
Kearney. “I have not so good a cook, nor, I ’m sorry to 
say, so good a cellar, as at the Barn ; but there are young 
faces, and young voices, and young laughter, and a light 
step on the stairs; and if I know anything, or rather, if I 
remember anything, these will warm a heart at your age 
better than ’44 claret or the crustiest port that ever stained 
a decanter.” 

“I am turned out, sir, — sent adrift on the world,” said 
the young man, despondently. 

“And it is not so bad a thing after all, take my word for 
it, boy. It ’s a great advantage, now and then, to begin life 

22 


338 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


as a vagabond. It talves a deal of snobbery out of a fellow 
to lie under a haystack, and there’s no better cure for pre- 
tension than a dinner of cold potatoes. Not that I say you 
need the treatment, — far from it; but our distinguished 
friend Mr. Walpole wouldn’t be a bit the worse of such an 
alterative.” 

“If I am left without a shilling in the world? ” 

“Then you must try what you can do on sixpence; the 
whole thing is how you begin. I used not to be able to 
eat my dinner when I did not see the fellow in a white tie 
standing before the sideboard, and the two Hunkies in plush 
and silk stockings at either side of the table; and when I 
perceived that the decanters had taken their departure, and 
that it was beer I was given to drink, I felt as if I had 
dined, and was ready to go out and have a smoke in the 
open air; but a little time, even without any patience, but 
just time, does it all.” 

“Time won’t teach a man to live upon nothing.” 

“It would be very hard for him if it did; let him begin 
by having few wants, and work hard to supply means for 
them.” 

“Work hard! Why, sir, if I labored from daylight to 
dark, I ’d not earn the wages of the humblest peasant, and 
I ’d not know how to live on it.” 

“Well, I have given you all the philosophy in mj^ budget; 
and to tell you the truth, Gorman, except so far as coming 
down in the world in spite of myself, I know mighty little 
about the fine precepts I have been giving you; but this I 
know, you have a roof over your head here, and you ’re 
heartily welcome to it; and who knows but your aunt 
may come to terms all the sooner, because she sees you 
here ? ” 

“You are very generous to me, and I feel it deeply,” said 
the young man ; but he was almost choked with the words. 

“You have told me already, Gorman, that your aunt gave 
you no other reason against coming here than that I had not 
been to call on you; and I believe you, — believe 3^011 thor- 
oughly; but tell me now, with the same frankness, was 
there nothing passing in your mind, — had you no suspi- 
cions or misgivings, or something of the same kind, to keep 


SAGE ADVICE. 


339 


you away? Be candid with me now, and speak it out 
freely.” 

“None, on my honor. I was sorely grieved to be told 
I must not come, and thought very often of rebelling, so 
that, indeed, when I did rebel, I was in a measure prepared 
for the penalty, though scarcely so heavy as this.” 

“Don’t take it to heart. It will come right yet; every- 
thing comes right if we give it time, and there ’s plenty of 
time to the fellow who is not five-and-twenty. It ’s only 
the old dogs, like myself, who are always doing their match 
against time, are in a hobble. To feel that everv minute 
of the clock is something very like three weeks of the 
almanac, flurries a man when he wants to be cool and col- 
lected. Put your hat on a peg, and make your home here. 
If you want to be of use, Kitty will show you scores of 
things to do about the garden, and we never object to see 
a brace of snipe at the end of dinner, though there ’s nobody 
cares to shoot them; and the bog trout — for all their dark 
color — are excellent catch, and I know you can throw a 
line. All I say is, do something, and something that takes 
you into the open air. Don’t get to lying about in easy- 
chairs and reading novels; don’t get to singing duets and 
philandering about with the girls. May I never, if I ’d not 
rather find a brandy flask in your pocket than Tennj’son’s 
poems! ” 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


REPROOF. 

“Say it out frankl}", Kate,” cried Nina, as with flashing 
eyes and heightened color she paced the drawing-room from 
end to end, with that bold sweeping stride which in moments 
of passion betrayed her. “Say it out. I know perfectly 
what you are hinting at.” 

“I never hint,” said the other, gravely; “least of all with 
those I love.” 

“So much the better. I detest an equivoque. If I am 
to be shot, let me look the fire in the face.” 

“There is no question of shooting, at all. I think you are 
very angry for nothing.” 

“Angry for nothing! Do you call that studied coldness 
you have observed towards me all day yesterday nothing? 
Is your ceremonious manner, — exquisitely polite, I will not 
deny, — is that nothing? Is your chilling salute when we 
met, — I half believe you courtesied, — nothing? That you 
shun me, that you take pains not to keep my company, never 
to be with me alone, is past denial.” 

“And I do not deny it,” said Kate, with a voice of calm 
and quiet meaning. 

“At last, then, I have the avowal. You own that you love 
me no longer.” 

“No, I own nothing of the kind. I love you very dearly; 
but I see that our ideas of life are so totally unlike, that 
unless one should bend and conform to the other, we cannot 
blend our thoughts in that harmony which perfect confidence 
requires. You are so mucli above me in many things, so 
much more cultivated and gifted, — I was going to say 
civilized, and I believe I might — ” 


REPROOF. 


341 


“Ta — ta — ta,” cried Nina, impatiently. “These flat- 
teries are very ill-timed.” 

“So they would be if they were flatteries; but if you had 
patience to hear me out, you ’d have learned that I meant a 
higher flattery for myself.” 

“Don’t I know it? don’t I guess?” cried the Greek. 
“Have not your downcast eyes told it? and that look of 
sweet humility that says, ‘ At least, I am not a flirt ’ ? ” 

“ Nor am I,” said Kate, coldly. 

“ And I am! Come, now, do confess. You want to say 
it.” 


‘ ‘ With all my heart I wish you were not I ” And Kate’s 
eyes swam as she spoke. 

“ And what if I tell you that I know it, — that in the very 
employment of the arts of what you call coquetry, I am but 
exercising those powers of pleasing by which men are led to 
frequent the salon instead of the cafe, and like the society 
of the Cultivated and refined better than — ” 

“ No, no, uo ! ” burst in Kate. “ There is no such mock 
principle in the case. You are a flirt because you like the 
homage it secures you, and because, as you do not believe 
in such a thing as an honest affection, you have no scruple 
about trifling with a man’s heart.” 


“ So much for captivating that bold hussar,” cried Nina. 

“ For the moment I was not thinking of him.” 

“ Of whom then ? ” 

“ Of that poor Captain Curtis, who has just ridden away.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” 

“Yes. He has a pretty wife and three nice little girls, 
and they are the happiest people in the world. They love 
each other, and love their home, — so, at least, I am told, 
for I scarcely know them m^^self.” 

“ And what have I done with him?’' 

“ Sent him away sad and doubtful, — very doubtful if the 
happiness he believed in was the real article after all, and 
disposed to ask himself how it was that his heart was beat- 
ing in a new fashion, and that some new sense had been 


added to his nature, of which he had no inkling before. 
Sent him awa}^ with the notes of a melody floating through 
his brain, so that the merry laugh of his children will be a 


LOUD KILGOBBIN. 


o I o 

discord, and such a memory of a soft glance, that his wife’s 
bright look will be meaningless.” 

“ And I have done all this? Poor me ! ” 

“Yes, and done it so often, that it leaves no remorse 
behind it.” 

“And the same, I suppose, with the others?” 

“With Mr. Walpole, and Dick, and Mr. O’Shea, and Mr. 
Atlee, too, when he was here, in their several ways.” 

“ Oh, in theirs, not in mine, then? ” 

“ I am but a bungler in my explanation. I wislied to say 
that you adapted your fascinations to the tastes of each.” 

“ AVhat a siren ! ” 

“Well, yes, — what a siren! for they’re all in love in 
some fashion or other ; but 1 could have forgiven you these, 
had you spared the married man.” 

“ So you actually envy that poor prisoner the gleam of 
lio’ht and the breath of cold air that comes between his 
prison bars, — that one moment of ecstas}^ that reminds him 
how he once was free and at large, and no manacles to 
weigh him down? You will not let him even touch bliss in 
imagination ? Are you not more cruel than me ? ” 

“ This is mere nonsense,” said Kate, boldly. “ You 
either believe that man was fooling you^ or that you liave 
sent him away unhappy. Take which of these j^ou like.” 

“ Can’t 3^our rustic nature see that there is a third case, 
quite different from both, and that Harry Curtis went off 
believing — ” 

“ Was he Harry Curtis?” broke in Kate. 

“ He was dear Harry when I said good-bye,” said Nina, 
calmly. 

“ Oh, then, I give up everjffhing, — I throw up ni}" brief.” 
“ So you ought, for you have lost your cause long ago.” 
“Even that poor Donogan was not spared, and Heaven 
knows he had troubles enough on his head to have pleaded 
some pity for him.” 

“ And is there no kind word to say of me^ Kate? ” 

“ Oh, Nina, how ashamed you make me of my violence, 
when I dare to blame you ! but if I did not love }"ou so 
dearly I could better bear you should have a fault.” 

“ I have only one, then? ” 


KE PROOF. 


343 


“I know of no great one but this. I mean, I know of 
none that endangers good nature and right feeling.” 

‘‘And are you so sure that this does? Are you so sure 
that what you are faulting is not the manner and the way of 
a world you have not seen? that all these levities, as you 
would call them, are not the ordinary ware of people whose 
lives are passed where there is more tolerance and less 
pain t 

“ Be serious, Nina, for a moment, and own that it was by 
intention you were in the approach when Captain Curtis rode 
away, — that you said something to him, or looked some- 
thing — perhaps both — on which he got down from his 
horse and walked beside you for full a mile?” 

“ All true,” said Nina, calmly. “ I confess to every part 
of it.” 

“ I ’d far rather that you said you were sorry for it.” 

“ But I am not; I’m very glad, — I’m very proud of it. 
Yes, look as reproachfully as you like, Kate! ‘very proud’ 
w^as what I said.” 

“Then I am indeed sorry,” said Kate, growing pale as 
she spoke. 

“I don’t think after all this sharp lecturing of me that 
you deserve much of my confidence, and if I make you any, 
Kate, it is not by way of exculpation ; for I do not accept 
your blame ; it is simply out of caprice — mind that, and 
that I am not thinking of defending myself.” 

“ I can easily believe that,” said Kate, dryly. 

And the other continued: “When Captain Curtis was 
talking to your father, and discussing the chances of cap- 
turing Donogan, he twice or thrice mentioned Harper and 
Fry, — names which somehow seemed familiar tome; and 
on thinking the matter over wdien I went to my room, I 
opened Donogan’s pocket-book, and there found how these 
names had become known to me. Harper and Fry w^ere 
tanners, in Cork Street, and theirs w’’as one of the addresses 
by which, if I had occasion to warn Donogan, I could write 
to him. On hearing these names from Curtis, it struck me 
that there might be treachery somewdiere. Was it that 
these men themselves had turned traitors to the cause? or 
had another betrayed them? Whichever w'ay the matter 


344 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


went, Donogan was evidently in great danger ; for this was 
one of the places he regarded as perfectly safe. 

“ What was to be done? I dared not asked advice on any- 
side. To reveal the suspicions which were tormenting me 
required that I should produce this pocket-book, and to 
whom could I impart this man’s secret? 1 thought of 
your brother Dick, but he was from home, and even if he 
had not been, I doubt if I should have told him. I should 
have come to you, Kate, but that grand rebukeful tone you 
had taken up this last twenty-four hours repelled me ; and 
finally, I took counsel with myself. I set off just before 
Captain Curtis started, to what you have called waylay him 
in the avenue. 

“ Just below the beech-copse he came up; and then that 
small fiirtatiou of the drawing-room, which has caused you 
so much anger and me such a sharp lesson, stood me in 
good stead, and enabled me to arrest his progress by some 
chance word or two, and at last so far to interest him that 
he got down and walked along at my side. I shall not 
shock you by recalling the little tender ‘ nothings ’ that 
passed between us, nor dwell on the small mockeries of 
sentiment which we exchanged, — I hope very harmlessly, — 
but proceed at once to what I felt my object. He was 
profuse of his gratitude for what I had done for him with 
Walpole, and firmly believed that my intercession alone had 
saved him ; and so I went on to say that the best reparation 
he could make for his blunder would be some exercise of 
well-directed activity when occasion should offer. ‘ Sup- 
pose, for instance,’ said I, ‘ you could capture this man 
Donogan ? ’ 

vT^ 

“ ‘ The very thing I hope to do,’ cried he. ‘ The train is 
laid already. One of my constables has a brotlier in a well- 
known house in Dublin, the members of which, men of 
large wealth and good position, have long been suspected of 
holding intercourse with the rebels. Through his brother, 
himself a Fenian, this man has heard that a secret committee 
will meet at this place on Monday evening next, at which 
Donogan will be present. Molloy, another Head-Centre, will 
also be there, and Cummings, who escaped from Carrick- 
fergus.’ I took down all the names, Kate, the moment we 


KEPROOP. 


345 


parted, and while they were fresh in my memory. ‘ We ’ll 
draw the net on them all,’ said he; ‘and such a haul has 
not been made since ’98. The rewards alone will amount 
to some thousands.’ It was then I said, ‘ And is there no 
danger, Harry?’ ” 

“ Oh, Nina ! ” 

“Yes, darling, it was very dreadful, and I felt it so; but 
somehow one is carried away by a burst of feeling at certain 
moments, and the shame only comes too late. Of course it 
was wrong of me to call him Harry, and he, too, with a 
wife at home, and five little girls, — or three, I forget which, 
— should never have sworn that he loved me, nor said all 
that mad nonsense about what he felt in that region where 
chief constables have their hearts ; but I own to great 
tenderness and a very touching sensibility on either side. 
Indeed, I may add here, that the really sensitive natures 
amongst men are never found under forty-five ; but for 
genuine uncalculating affection, for the sort of devotion that 
flings consequences to the winds, I say, give me fifty-eight 
or sixty.” 

“ Nina, do not make me hate you,” said Kate, gravely. 

“Certainly not, dearest, if a little hypocrisy will avert 
such a misfortune. And so to return to my narrative, I 
learned as accurately as a gentleman so much in love could 
condescend to inform me, of all the steps taken to secure 
Donogan at this meeting, or to capture him later on if he 
should try to make his escape by sea.” 

“You mean, then, to write to Donogan and apprise him 
of his danger?” 

“It is done. I wrote the moment I got back here. I 
addressed him as Mr. James Bredin, care of Jonas Mullory, 
Esq., 41 New Street, which was the first address in the list 
he gave me. I told him of the peril he ran, and what his 
friends were also threatened by, and I recounted the absurd 
seizure of Mr. Walpole’s effects here; and, last of all, what 
a dangerous rival he had in this Captain Curtis, who was 
ready to desert wife, children, and the constabulary to- 
morrow for me ; and assuring him confidentially that I was 
well worth greater sacrifices of better men, I signed my 
initials in Greek letters.” 


346 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Marvellous caution and great discretion,” said Kate, 
solemnly. 

“ And now come over to the drawing-room, where I have 
promised to sing for Mr. O’Shea some little ballad that he 
dreamed over all the night through ; and then there ’s some- 
thing else, — what is it? what is it? ” 

“ How should I know, Nina? I was not present at your 
arrangement.” 

“Nevermind; I ’ll remember it presently. It will come 
to my recollection while I ’m singing that song.” 

“ If emotion is not too much for you.” 

“Just so, Kate, — sensibilities permitting; and, indeed,'' 
she said, “ I remember it already. It was luncheon.” 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


now MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE. 

“Is it true they have captured Donogan?” said Nina, 
coining hurriedly into the library, where W alpole was busily 
engaged with his correspondence, and sat before a table 
covered not only with official documents, but a number of 
printed placards and handbills. 

He looked up, surprised at her presence, and by the tone 
of familiarity in her question, for which he was in no way 
prepared, and for a second or two actually stared at without 
answering her. 

“Can’t you tell me? Are they correct in saying he has 
been caught? ” cried she, impatiently. 

“Very far from it. There are the police returns up to 
last night from Meath, Kildare, and Dublin ; and though 
he was seen at Naas, passed some hours in Dublin, and 
actually attended a night meeting at Kells, all trace of him 
has been since lost, and he has completely baffied us. 
P)y the Viceroy’s orders, I am now doubling the reward 
for his apprehension, and am prepared to offer a free 
pardon to an}^ who shall give information about him, who 
may not actually have comitted a felony.” 

“Is he so very dangerous, then? ” 

“ Every man who is so daring is dangerous here. The 
people have a sort of idolatry for reckless courage. It is not 
only that he has ventured to come back to the country where 
his life is sacrificed to the law, but he declares openly he is 
ready to offer himself as a representative for an Irish county, 
and to test in his own person whether the English will have 
the temerity to touch the man, — the choice of the Irish 
people.” 

“ He is bold,” said she, resolutely. 


348 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ And I trust be will pay for bis boldness ! Our law offi- 
cers are prepared to treat bim as a felon, irrespective of all 
claim to bis character as a Member of Parliament.” 

“ Tbe danger will not deter bim.” 

“ You tbink so? ” 

“ I know it,” was tbe calm reply. 

“ Indeed,” said be, bending a steady look at ber. “ Wbat 
opportunities, might I ask, have you bad to form this same 
opinion? ” 

“ Are not tbe public papers full of bim? Have we not an 
almost daily record of bis exploits? Do not your own re- 
wards for bis capture impart an almost fabulous value to bis 
life?” 

“His portrait, too, may lend some interest to bis story,” 
said be, with a balf-sneering smile. “ They say this is very 
like him.” And be banded a photograph as be spoke. 

“This was done in New York,” said she, turning to tbe 
back of tbe card, tbe better to bide an emotion she could 
not entirely repress. 

“Yes, done by a brother Fenian, long since in our pay.” 

“ How base all that sounds ! bow I detest such treachery ! ” 
“ How^ deal with treason without it? Is it like bim?” 
asked be, artlessly. 

“ How should I know? ” said she, in a slightly hurried tone. 
“It is not like the portrait in tbe ‘ Illustrated News.’ ” 

“ I wonder which is tbe more like,” added be, thoughtfully, 
“ and I fervently hope we shall soon know. There is not a 
man be confides in who has not engaged to betra^^ bim.” 

“I trust you feel proud of your achievement.” 

“ No, not proud, but very anxious for its success. Tbe 
perils of this country are too great for mere sensibilities. 
He who would extirpate a terrible disease must not fear tbe 
knife.” 

“ Not if be even kill tbe patient? ” asked she. 

“ That might happen, and would be to be deplored,” said 
be, in tbe same unmoved tone. “But might I ask, whence 
has come all this interest for this cause, and bow have 3^011 
learned so much sympathy with these people ? ” 

“I read tbe newspapers,” said she, di’3d3\ 

“ You must read those of only one color, then,” said be, 


HOW MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE. 


349 


slyly ; or perhaps it is the tone of comment you hear about 
you. Are your sentiments such as you daily listen to from 
Lord Kilgobbin and his family? ” 

“ I don’t know that they are. I suspect I’m more of a 
rebel than he is ; but I ’ll ask him if you wish it.” 

“ On no account, I entreat you. It would compromise me 
seriously to hear such a discussion even in jest. Remember 
who I am, mademoiselle, and the office I hold.” 

“ Your great frankness, Mr. Walpole, makes me some- 
times forget both,” said she, with well-acted humility. 

“ I wish it would do something more,” said he, eagerly; 
“ I wish it would inspire a little emulation, and make you 
deal as openly with me as I long to do with uoa.” 

“ It might embarrass you very much, perhaps.” 

“As how?” asked he, with a touch of tenderness in his 
voice. 

For a second or two she made no answer, and then, falter- 
ing at each word, she said, “ What if some rebel leader, — 
this man Douogan, for instance, — drawn towards you by 
some secret magic of trustfulness, — moved by, 1 know 
not what need of your sympathy, — for there is such a 
craving void now and then felt in the heart, — should tell 
you some secret thought of his nature, — something that he 
could utter alone to himself, — would you bring 3^ourself to 
use it against him ? Could \"ou turn round and sa}^, — ‘ I 
have your inmost soul in my keeping. Y^ou are mine now, 
— mine — mine ’ ? ” 

“ Do I understand you aright? ” said he, earnestl}\ “Is it 
just possible, even possible, that 3^011 have that to confide to 
me which would show that you regard me as a dear friend? ” 
“Oh! Mr. Walpole,” burst she out, passionatel3", “do 
not b3^ the greater power of you 7 ' intellect seek the mastei’3^ 
over mine. Let the loneliness and isolation of my life here 
rather appeal to you to pity than suggest the thought of in- 
fluencing and dominating me.” 

“ AVould that I might! What would I not give or do to 
have that power that you speak of ! ” 

“ Is this true?” said she. 

“It is.” 

“ Will vou swear it?” 


350 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Most solemnly.” 

She paused for a moment, and a slight tremor shook her 
mouth ; but whether the motion expressed a sentiment of 
acute pain or a movement of repressed sarcasm, it was very 
ditiicult to determine. 

“What is it, then, that you would swear?” asked she, 
calmly and even coldly. 

“ Swear that I have no hope so high, no ambition so great, 
as to win your heart.” 

“Indeed! And that other heart that you have won, — 
w'hat is to become of it? ” 

“ Its owner has recalled it. In fact, it was never in mij 
keeping but as a loan.” 

“ How strange ! At least, how strange to me this sounds. 
I, in my ignorance, thought that people pledged their very 
lives in these bargains.” 

“ So it ought to be, and so it would be, if this world were 
not a web of petty interests and mean ambitions ; and these, 
I grieve to say, will find their way into hearts that should be 
the home of very different sentiments. It was of this order 
was that compact with my cousin, — for I will speak openly 
to you, knowing it is her to whom }"ou allude. We were to 
have been married. It was an old engagement. Our friends 
— that is, I believe, the w^ay to call them — liked it. They 
thought it a good thing for each of us. Indeed, making the 
dependants of a good family intermarry is an economy of 
patronage, — the same plank rescues two from drowning. I 
believe — that is, I fear — we accepted all this in the same 
spirit. We were to love each other as much as we could, 
and our relations were to do their best for us.” 

“ And now it is all over? ” 

“ All — and forever.” 

“ How came this about? ” 

“ At first by a jealousy about yo?/.” 

“ A jealousy about me I You surely never dared — ” and 
here her voice trembled with real passion, while her eyes 
flashed angrily. 

“No, no. I am guiltless in the matter. It was that cur 
Atlee made the mischief. In a moment of weak trustfulness 
I sent him over to Wales to assist my uncle in his corre- 


HOW MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE. 


351 


spondence. He, of course, got to know Lady Maude Bick- 
erstaft'e; by what arts he ingratiated himself into her confi- 
dence I cannot say. Indeed, I had trusted that the fellow’s 
vulgarity would form an impassable barrier between them, 
and prevent all intimacy; but, apparently, I was wrong. 
He seems to have been the companion of her rides and 
drives, and, under the pretext of doing some commissions 
for her in the bazaars of Constantinople, he got to corre- 
spond with her. So artful a fellow would well know what 
to make of such a privilege.” 

“And is he your successor now?” asked she, with a look 
of almost undisguised insolence. 

“Scarcely that,” said he, with a supercilious smile. “I 
think, if you had ever seen my cousin, you would scarcely 
have asked the question.” 

“But I have seen her. I saw her at the Odescalchi Palace 
at Rome. I remember the stare she was pleased to bestow 
on me as she swept past me. I remember more, her words 
as she asked, ‘ ds this your Titian girl I have heard so 
much of? ’ ” 

“And may hear more of,” muttered he, almost uncon- 
sciously. 

“Yes, even that, too; but not, perhaps, in the sense you 
mean.” Then, as if correcting herself, she went on, “It 
was a bold ambition of Mr. Atlee. I must say I like the 
very daring of it.” 

“7/e never dared it; take my word for it.” 

An insolent laugh was her first reply. “How little you 
men know of each other, and how less than little you know 
of us! You sneer at the people who are moved by sudden 
impulse, but 3^11 forget it is the squall upsets the boat.” 

“I believe I can follow what you mean. You would 
imply that my cousin’s breach with me might have impelled 
hoi* to listen to Atlee? ” 

“Not so much that, as by establishing himself as her 
confidant he got the ke}" of her heart, and let himself in as 
he pleased.” 

“I suspect he found little to interest him there.” 

“The insufferable insolence of that speech! Can 3’ou men 
never be brought to see that we are not all alike to each of 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


352 


you; that our natures have their separate watchwords, and 
that the soul which would vibrate with tenderness to this, 
is to that a dead and senseless thing, with no trace nor 
touch of feeling about it?” 

“I only believe this in part.” 

“Believe it wholly, then, or own that you know nothing 
of love ; no more than do those countless thousands who go 
through life and never taste its real ecstasy, nor its leal 
sorrow; who accept convenience, or caprice, or Battered 
vanity as its counterfeit, and live out the delusion in lives 
of discontent. You have done wrong to break with your 
cousin. It is clear to me you suited each other.” 

•‘This is sarcasm.” 

“If it is, I am sorry for it. I meant it for sincerity. In 
your career, ambition is everything. The woman that could 
aid you on your road would be the real helpmate. She who 
would simply cross your path by her sympathies, or her 
affections, would be a mere embarrassment. Take the very 
case before us. Would not Lady Maude point out to you 
how, by the capture of this rebel, you might so aid your 
friends as to establish a claim for recompense? Would she 
not impress you with the necessity of showing how your 
activity redounded to the credit of your party? She would 
neither interpose with ill-timed appeals to your pity or a 
misplaced sympathy. She would help the politician, while 
another might hamper the man.” 

“All that might be true if the game of political life were 
played, as it seems to be, on the surface, and my cousin 
was exactly the sort of woman to use ordinary faculties with 
abilitv and acuteness; but there are scores of things in 
which her interference would have been hurtful, and her 
secrecy dubious. I will give you an instance, and it will 
serve to show my implicit confidence in yourself. Now 
with respect to this man, Donogan, there is nothing we 
wish less than to take him. To capture means to try; to 
try means to hang him ; and how much better, or safer, or 
stronger are we when it is done? These fellows, right or 
wrong, represent opinions that are never controverted by 
the scaffold; and every man who dies for his convictions 
leaves a thousand disciples who never believed in him 


HOW MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE. 353 

before. It is only because he braves us that we pursue him, 
and in the face of our opponents and Parliament we cannot 
do less. So that while we are offering large rewards for his 
apprehension we would willingly give double the sum to 
know he had escaped. Talk of the supremacy of the Law; 
the more you assert that here, the more ungovernable is 
this country by a Party. An active Attorney-General is 
another word for three more regiments in Ireland.” 

““I follow you with some difficulty; but I see that you 
would like this man to get away, and how is that to be 
done ? ” 

“Easily enough, when once he knows that it will be safe 
for him to go north. He naturally fears the Orangemen 
of the northern counties. They will, however, do nothing 
without the police, and the police have got their orders 
throughout Antrim and Derry. Here, — on this strip of 
paper, — here are the secret instructions : ‘ To George 

Dargan, Chief Constable, Letterkenny district. Private and 
confidential. — It is, for many reasons, expedient that the 
convict Donogan, on a proper understanding that he will not 
return to Ireland, should be suffered to escape. If you are, 
therefore, in a position to extort a pledge from him to this 
extent, and it should be explicit and beyond all cavil, you 
will, taking due care not to compromise your authority in 
your office, aid him to leave the country, even to the extent 
of mone^md assistance.’ To this are appended directions 
how he is to proceed to carry out these instructions; what 
he may, and what he may not do, with whom he may seek 
for co-operation, and where he is to maintain a guarded and 
careful secrecy. Now, in telling you all this. Mademoiselle 
Kostalergi, I have given you the strongest assurance in my 
power of the unlimited trust I have in you. I see how the 
questions that agitate this country interest you. I read 
the eagerness with which you watch them, but I want you to 
see more. I want you to see that the men who purpose to 
themselves the great task of extricating Ireland from her 
difficulties must be politicians in the highest sense of the 
word, and that you should see in us statesmen of an order 
that can weigh human passions and human emotions ; and 
see that hope and fear, and terror and gratitude, sway the 


354 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


hearts of men who, to less observant eyes, seem to have no 
place in their natures but for rebellion. That this mode of 
governing Ireland is the one charm to the Celtic heart, all 
the Tory rule of the last fifty years, with its hangings and 
banishments and other terrible blunders, will soon convince 
you. The priest alone has felt the pulse of this people, and 
we are the only ministers of England who have taken the 
priest into our confidence. I own to you I claim some 
credit for myself in this discovery. It was in long reflect- 
ing over the ills of Ireland that I came to see that where 
the malady has so much in its nature that is sensational and 
emotional, so must the remedy be sensational too. The 
Tories were ever bent on extirpating; we devote ourselves 
to ‘ healing measures. ’ Do you follow me ? ” 

“I do,” said she, thoughtfully. 

“Do I interest you?” asked he, more tenderly. 
“Intensely,” was the reply. 

“Oh, if I could but think that! If I could bring myself 
to believe that the day would come, not only to secure your 
interest, but your aid and your assistance in this great task ! 
I have long sought the opportunity to tell 3^011 that we, who 
hold the destinies of our people in our keeping, are not 
inferior to our great trust; that we are not mere creatures 
of a state department, small deities of the Olympus of oftice, 
but actual statesmen and rulers. Fortune has given me 
the wished-for moment, let it complete my happiness ; let it 
tell me that you see in this noble w'ork one worthy of ^mur 
genius and your generosity, and that you w^ould accept me 
as a fellow-laborer in the cause.” 

The fervor which he threw into the utterance of these 
words contrasted strongly and strangely with the words 
themselves; so unlike the declaration of a lover’s passion. 
“I do — not — know,” said she, falteringl3\ 

“What is that you do not know?” asked he with tender 
eagerness. 

“I do not know, if I understand 3^011 aright, and I do not 
know what answer I should give 3^011.” 

“Will not 3mur heart tell you? ” 

She shook her head. 

“You will not crush me with the thought that there is no 
pleading for me there.” 


HOW :MEN in office MxVKE love. 


355 


“If you had desired in honesty my regard, you should not 
have prejudiced me. You began here by enlisting my sym- 
pathies in your task; you told me of your ambitions. I 
like these ambitions.” 

“Why not share them?” cried he, passionately. 

“You seem to forget what you ask. A woman does not 
give her heart as a man joins a party or an administration. 
It is no question of an advantage based upon a compromise. 
There is no sentiment of gratitude, or recompense, or reward 
in the gift. She simply gives that which is no longer hers 
to retain. She trusts to what her mind will not stop to 
question; she goes where she cannot help but follow.” 
“How immeasurably greater your every word makes the 
prize of your love! ” 

“It is in no vanity that I say, I know it,” said she, 
calmly. “Let us speak no more on this now.” 

“But you will not refuse to listen to me, Nina? ” 

“I will read you if you Avrite to me; ” and with a wave of 
good-bye she slowly left the room. 

“She is my master, even at my own game,” said AValpole, 
as he sat down and rested his head between his hands. 
“ Still, she is mistaken; I can write just as vaguely as I can 
speak, and if I could not, it would have cost me my freedom 
this many a day. With such a woman one might venture 
high; but Heaven help him when he ceased to climb the 
mountain ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


A CUP OF TEA. 

It was so rare an event of late for Nina to seek her cousin 
in her own room that Kate was somewhat surprised to see 
Nina enter with all her old ease of manner, and, flinging 
away her hat carelessly, say, “Let me have a cup of tea, 
dearest, for I want to have a clear head and a calm mind for 
at least the next half-hour.” 

“It is almost time to dress for dinner, especially for you, 
Nina, who make a careful toilette.” 

“Perhaps I shall make less to-day; perhaps not go down 
to dinner at all. Do you know, child, I have every reason 
for agitation, and maiden bashfulness, besides? Do you 
know I have had a proposal — a proposal in all form — from 
— but you shall guess whom.” 

“Mr. O’Shea, of course.” 

“No, not Mr. O’Shea, though I am almost prepared for 
such a step on his part; nor from your brother Dick, who 
has been falling in and out of love with me for the last 
three months or more. My present conquest is the supremely 
arrogant, but now condescending, Mr. Walpole, who, for 
reasons of state and exigencies of party, has been led to 
believe that a pretty wife, with a certain amount of natural 
astuteness, might advance his interests, and tend to his 
promotion in public life; and with his old instincts as a 
gambler, he is actually read}" to risk his fortunes on a single 
card, and I, the portionless Greek girl, with about the 
same advantages of family as of fortune, — I am to be that 
queen of trumps on which he stands to win. And now, dar- 
ling, the cup of tea, the cup of tea, if you wmnt to hear 
more. ” 


A CUP OF TEA. 


357 


While Kate was busy arranging the cups of a little tea- 
service that did duty in her dressing-room, Nina walked 
impatiently to and fro, talking with rapidity all the time. 

1 he man is a greater fool than I thought him, and mis- 
takes his native weakness of mind for originality. If you 
had heard the imbecile nonsense he talked to me for 
political shrewdness; and when he had shown me what a 
very poor creature he was, he made me the offer of himself! 
Ihis was so far honest and above-board. It was saying 
in so many words, ‘You see, I am a bankrupt.’ Now, I 
don’t like bankrupts, either of mind or money. Could he 
not have seen that he who seeks my favor must sue in 
another fashion?” 

“And so you refused him? ” said Kate, as she poured out 
her tea. 

“Far from it; I rather listened to his suit. I was so far 
curious to hear what he could plead in his behalf that I bade 
him write it. Yes, dearest; it was a maxim of that very 
acute man my papa, that, when a person makes you any 
dubious proposition in words, you oblige him to commit it 
to writing. Not necessaril}" to be used against him after- 
wards, but for this reason, — and I can almost quote my 
papa’s phrase on the occasion, — in the homage of his 
self-love a man will rarely write himself such a knave as he 
will dare to own when he is talking, and in that act of weak- 
ness is the gain of the other party to the compact.” 

“I don’t think I understand you.” 

“I’m sure you do not; and you have put no sugar in my 
tea, which is worse. Do you mean to say that your clock 
is right, and that it is already nigh seven? Oh, dear! and 
I, who have not told you one half of my news, I must go 
and dress. I have a certain green silk with white roses 
which I mean to wear; and with my hair in that crimson 
Neapolitan net, it is a toilette a la minute.” 

“You know how it becomes you,” said Kate, half slyly. 

“Of course I do, or in this critical moment of my life I 
should not risk it. It will have its own suggestive meaning, 
too. It will recall ce clier Cecil to days at Baia, or wan- 
dering along the coast at Portici. I have known a frag- 
ment of lace, a flower, a few bars of a song, do more to link 


358 


LORD KILGOEBIN. 


the broken chain of memory than scores of more labored 
recollections ; and then these little paths that lead you back 
are so simple, so free from all premeditation. Don’t you 
think so, dear? ” 

“I do not know, and if it were not rude, I ’d say I do not 
care.” 

“If my cup of tea were not so good, I should be offended 
and leave the room after such a speech. But you do not 
know, you could not guess, the interesting things that I 
could tell you,” cried she, with an almost breathless rapidity. 
‘%]ust imagine that deep statesman, that profound plotter, 
telling me that they actually did not wish to capture Dono- 
gan ; that they would rather that he should escape ! ” 

“He told you this? ” 

“He did more; he showed me the secret instructions to 
his police creatures, — I forget how they are called, — show- 
ing what they might do to connive at his escape, and how 
they should — if they could — induce him to give some 
written pledge to leave Ireland forever.” 

“Oh, this is impossible!” cried Kate. 

“I could prove it to you if I had not just sent off the veri- 
table bit of writing by post. Yes, stare and look horrified 
if you like; it is all true. I stole the piece of paper with 
the secret directions, and sent it straight to Donogan, under 
cover to Archibald Casey, Esq., 9 Lower Gardner Street, 
Dublin.” 

“How could you have done such a thing? ” 

“Say, how could I have done otherwise. Donogan now 
knows whether it will become him to sign this pact with the 
enemy. If he deem his life worth having at the price, it 
is well that I should know it.” 

“It is, then, of yourself you were thinking all the while.” 
“Of myself and of him. I do not say I love this man; 
but I do say his conduct now shall decide if he be worth 
loving. There’s the bell for dinner. You shall hear all I 
have to say this evening. lYhat an interest it gives to life, 
even this much of plot and peril ! Short of being with the 
rebel himself, Kate, and sharing his dangers, I know of 
nothing could have given me such delight.” 

She turned back as she left the door, and said, “Make 


A CUP OF TEA. 


359 


Mr. Walpole take you down to dinner to-day ; I shall take 
Mr. O’Shea’s arm, or your brother’s.” 

The address of Archibald Casey, which Nina had used on 
this occasion, was that of a well-known solicitor in Dublin, 
whose Conservative opinions placed him above all suspicion 
or distrust. One of his clients, however, — a certain Mr. 
Maher, — had been permitted to have letters occasionally 
addressed to him to Casey’s care; and Maher, being an 
old college friend of Donogan’s, afforded him this mode of 
receiving letters in times of unusual urgency or danger. 
Maher shared very slightly in Donogan’s opinions. He 
thought the men of the National party not only dangerous 
in themselves, but that they afforded a reason for many of 
the repressive law's w'hich Englishmen passed with reference 
to Ireland. A friendship of early life, when both these 
young men w'ere college students, had overcome such scru- 
ples, and Donogan had been permitted to have many letters 
marked simply with a D., wdiich wmre sent under cover to 
Maher. This facility had, how'ever, been granted so far 
back as ’47, and had not been renew'ed in the interval, 
during which time the Archibald Casey of that period had 
died, and been succeeded by a son with the same name as 
his father. 

When Nina, on looking over Donogan’s note-book, came 
upon this address, she saw', also, some almost illegible 
w'ords, which implied that it was only to be employed as the 
last resort, or had been so used, — a phrase she could not 
exactly determine w'hat it meant. The present occasion, so 
emergent in every w'ay, appeared to warrant both haste and 
security; and so, under cover to S. Maher, she wrote to 
Donogan in these w'ords : — 

“I send von the words in the original handwriting;, of the instruc- 
tions with regard to you. You will do what your honor and your 
conscience dictate. Do not write to me; the public papers will 
inform me what your decision has been, and I shall be satisfied, 
however it incline. I rely upon you to burn the enclosure.” 

A suit-at-law, in w'hich Casey acted as Maher’s attorney 
at this period, required that the letters addressed to his 
house for Maher should be opened and read; and though the 


360 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


letter D. on the outside might have suggested a caution, 
Casey either overlooked or misunderstood it, and broke the 
seal. Not knowing what to think of this document, which 
was without signature, and had no clew to the writer except 
the post-mark of Kilgobbin, Casey hastened to lay tlie letter, 
as it stood, before the barrister w'ho conducted Maher’s 
cause, and to ask his advice. The Right Hon. Paul Harti- 
gan was an ex-Attorney-General of the Tory party, — a 
zealous, active, but somewhat rash member of his party; 
still in the House, a Member for Mallow, and far more 
eager for the return of his friends to power than the great 
man w^ho dictated the tactics of the Opposition, and who 
with more of responsibility could calculate the chances of 
success. 

Paul Hartigan’s estimate of the Whigs was such that it 
would have in no wise astonished him to discover that Mr. 
Gladstone was in close correspondence wdth O’Donovan 
Rossa, or that Chichester Fortescue had been sworn in as a 
Head-Centre. That the whole Cabinet were secretly Papists, 
and held weekly confession at the feet of Dr. Manning, he 
w^as prepared to prove. He did not vouch for Mr. Lowe; 
but he could produce the form of scapular worn by Mr. 
Gladstone, and had a fac-simile of the scourge by which Mr. 
Cardwell diurnally chastened his natural instincts. 

If, then, he expressed but small astonishment at this 
“traffic of the Government with rebellion,” for so he called 
it, he lost no time in endeavoring to trace the writer of the 
letter, and ascertaining, so far as he might, the authenticity 
of the enclosure. 

“It ’s all true, Casey,” said he, a few days after his 
receipt of the papers. “The instructions are written by 
Cecil Walpole, the private secretary of Lord Danesbury. 
I have obtained several specimens of his wTiting. There is 
no attempt at disguise or concealment in this. I have 
learned, too, that the police-constable Dargan is one of 
their most trusted agents; and the only thing now to find 
out is, who is the writer of the letter; for, up to this, all 
w^e know is, the hand is a w'oman’s.” 

Now it chanced that when Mr. Hartigan — who had taken 
great pains and bestowed much time to learn the story of the 


A CUP OF TEA. 


361 


night attack on Kilgobbin, and wished to make the presence 
of Mr. Walpole on the scene the ground of a question in 
Parliament — had consulted the leader of the Opposition on 
the subject, he had met not only a distinct refusal of aid, 
but something very like a reproof for his ill-advised zeal. 
The Honorable Paul, not for the first time disposed to dis- 
trust the political loyalty that differed with his own ideas, 
now declared openly that he would not confide this great 
disclosure to the lukewarm advocacy of Mr. Disraeli; he 
would himself lay it before the House, and stand or fall by 
the result. 

If the men who “ stand or fall ” by any measure were 
counted, it is to be feared that they usually would be found 
not only in the category of the latter, but that they very 
rarely rise again, so very few are the matters which can be 
determined without some compromise, and so rare are the 
political questions which comprehend a distinct principle. 

What warmed the Hartigan ardor, and, indeed, chafed it 
to a white heat on this occasion, was to see by the public 
papers that Daniel Donogan had been fixed on by the men 
of King’s County as the popular candidate, and a public 
meeting held at Kilbeggan to declare that the man who 
should oppose him at the hustings should be pronounced the 
enemy of Ireland. To show that while this man was adver- 
tised in the “*Hue and Cry,” with an immense reward for 
his apprehension, he was in secret protected by the Govern- 
ment, who actually condescended to treat with him ; what an 
occasion would this afford for an attack that would revive 
the memories of Grattan’s scorn and Curran’s sarcasm, and 
declare to the senate of England that the men who led them 
were unworthy guardians of the national honor! 


CHAPTER L. 


CROSS PURPOSES. 

AVhether Walpole found some peculiar difficulty in commit- 
ting bis intentions to writing, or whether the press of busi- 
ness which usually occupied his mornings served as an 
excuse, or whether he was satisfied with the progress of his 
suit his personal assiduities, is not easy to say; but his 
attentions to Mademoiselle Kostalergi had now assumed 
the form which prudent mothers are wont to call “serious,” 
and had already passed into that stage where small jeal- 
ousies begin, and little episodes of anger and discontent are 
admitted as symptoms of the complaint. 

In fact, he had got to think himself privileged to remon- 
strate against this, and to dictate that, — a state, be it 
observed, which, whatever its effect upon the “ lady of his 
love,” makes a man particularly odious to the people around 
him; and he is singularly fortunate if it make him not 
ridiculous also. 

The docile or submissive was not the remarkable element 
in Nina’s nature. She usually resisted advice, and resented 
anything like dictation from any quarter. Indeed, they who 
knew her best saw that, however open to casual influences, a 
direct show of guidance was sure to call up all her spirit of 
opposition. It was, then, a matter of actual astonishment 
to all to perceive not only how quietly and patiently she 
accepted Walpole’s comments and suggestions, but how 
implicitly she seemed to obey them. 

All the little harmless freedoms of manner with Dick 
Kearney and O’Shea were now completely given up. No 
more was there between them that interchano^e of lio-ht 

O o 

“persiflage” which, presupposing some subject of common 
interest, is in itself a ground of intimacy. 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


363 


She ceased to sing the songs that were their favorites. 
Her walks in the garden after breakfast, where her ready 
wit and genial pleasantry used to bring her a perfect troop 
of followers, were abandoned. The little projects of daily 
pleasure, hitherto her especial province, were changed for 
a calm subdued demeanor which, though devoid of all de- 
pression, wore the impress of a certain thoughtfulness and 
seriousness. 

No man was less observant than old Kearney; and yet 
even he saw the change at last, and asked Kate what it 
might mean. “She is not ill, 1 hope,” said he; “or is our 
humdrum life too wearisome to her?” 

“I do not suspect either,” said Kate, slowly. “I rather 
believe that as Mr. Walpole has paid her certain attentions, 
she has made the changes in her manner in deference to 
some wishes of his.” 

“He wants her to be more English, perhaps,” said he, 
sarcastically. 

“Perhaps so.” 

“Well, she is not born one of us, but she is like us all 
the same; and I’ll be sorely grieved if she’ll give up her 
light-heartedness and her pleasantry to win that cockney.” 
“I think she has won the cockney already, sir.” 

A long low whistle was his reply. At last he said, “I 
suppose it ’s a very grand conquest, and what the world calls 
‘an elegant match;’ but may I never see Easter, if I 
would n’t rather she ’d marry a fine dashing young fellow 
over six feet high, like O’Shea there, than one of your gold- 
chain-and-locket }mung gentlemen who smile where they 
ought to laugh, and pick their way through life as a man 
crosses a stream on stepping-stones.” 

“Maybe she does not like Mr. O’Shea, sir.” 

“And do you think she likes the other man? or is it any- 
thing else than one of those mercenary attachments that you 
young ladies understand better, far better, than the most 
worldly-minded father or mother of us all ? ” 

“Mr. Walpole has not, I believe, any fortune, sir. There 
is nothing very dazzling in his position nor his prospects.” 
“No. Not amongst his own set, nor with his own people; 
he is small enough there, I grant you; but when he comes 


364 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


down to ours, Kitty, we think him a grandee of Spain ; and 
if he was married into the family, we ’d get off all his noble 
relations by heart, and soon start talking of oiir aunt, Lady 
Such-a-one, and Lord Somebody else, that was our first 
cousin, till our neighbors would nearly die out of pure 
spite. Sitting down in one’s poverty, and thinking over 
one’s grand relations, is for all the world like Paddy eating 
his potatoes, and pointing at the red-herring; even the look 
of what he dare not taste flavors his meal.” 

“At least, sir, you have found an excuse for our 
conduct.” 

Because we are all snobs, Kitty ; because there is not a 
bit of honesty or manliness in our nature; and because our 
women, that need not be bargaining or borrowing, — 
neither pawnbrokers nor usurers, — are just as vulgar- 
minded as ourselves; and now that we have given twenty 
millions to get rid of slavery, like to show how they can 
keep it up in the old country, just out of defiance.” 

“If you disapprove of Mr. Walpole, sir, 1 believe it is 
full time you should say so.” 

“I neither approve nor disapprove of him. I don’t well 
know whether I have any right to do either, — I mean so far 
as to influence her choice. He belongs to a sort of men I 
know as little about as I do of the Choctaw Indians. They 
have lives and notions and wmys all unlike ours. The 
world is so civil to them that it prepares everything to their 
taste. If they want to shoot, the birds are cooped up in a 
cover, and only let fly when they ’re ready. When they fish, 
the salmon are kept prepared to be caught; and if the\" 
make love, the young lady is just as ready to rise to the 
fly, and as willing to be bagged as either. Thank God, 
my darling, with all our barbarism, we have not come to 
that in Ireland.” 

“Here comes Mr. Walpole now, sir; and, if I read his 
face aright, he has something of importance to say to 
you.” 

Kate had barely time to leave the room as Walpole came 
forward with an open telegram and a mass of papers in his 
hand. 

“May I have a few moments of conversation with you? ” 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


365 


said he ; and in the tone of his words, and a certain gravity 
in his manner, Kearney thought he could perceive what the 
communication portended. 

“ 1 am at your orders,” said Kearney, and he placed a 
chair for the other. 

“ An incident has befallen my life here, Mr. Kearney, 
which, I grieve to say, may not only color the whole of my 
future career, but not impossibly prove the barrier to my 
pursuit of public life.” 

Kearney stared at him as he finished speaking, and the 
two men sat fixedly gazing on each other. 

‘‘ It is, I hasten to own, the one unpleasant, the one, the 
only one, disastrous event of a visit full of the happiest 
memories of my life. Of your generous and graceful hos- 
pitality, I cannot say half what I desire — ” 

“ Say nothing about my hospitality,” said Kearney, 
whose irritation as to what the other called a disaster left 
him no place for any other sentiment; “but just tell me 
why you count this a misfortune.” 

“ I call a misfortune, sir, what may not only depose me 
from my office and my station, but withdraw entirely from 
me the favor and protection of my uncle. Lord Danesbury.” 
“Then why the devil do you do it?” cried Kearney, 
angrily. 

“ Why do I do what, sir? I am not aware of any action 
of mine you should question with such euerg 3 ^” 

“ I mean, if it only tends to ruin your prospects and 
disgust your family, why do you persist, sir? I was going 
to say more, and ask with what face you presume to come 
and tell these things to me.?” 

“ I am really unable to understand you, sir.” 

“ Mayhap, we are both of us in the same predicament,” 
cried Kearney, as he wiped his brow in proof of his con- 
fusion. 

“ Had you accorded me a very little patience, I might, 
perhaps, have explained myself.” 

Not trusting himself with a word, Kearney nodded, and 
the other went on: “The post this morning brought me, 
among other things, these two newspapers, with penmarks 
in the margin to direct my attention. This is the ‘ Lily 


366 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


of Londonderry,’ a wild Orange print; this, the ‘Banner 
of Ulster,’ a journal of the same complexion. Here is 
what the ‘ Lily ’ says : ‘ Our count}^ member. Sir Jonas 
Gettering, is now in a position to call the attention of Par- 
liament to a document which will distinctly show how her 
Majesty’s Ministers are not only in close correspondence 
with the leaders of Fenianism, but that Irish rebellion 
receives its support and comfort from the present Cabinet. 
Grave as this charge is, and momentous as would be the 
consequences of such an allegation if unfounded, we repeat 
that such a document is in existence, and that we who write 
these lines have held it in our hands and have perused it.’ 

“ The ‘ Banner ’ copies the paragraph, and adds, ‘ We give 
all the publicity in our power to a statement which, from 
our personal knowledge, we can declare to be true. If the 
disclosures which a debate on this subject must inevitably 
lead to will not convince Englishmen that Ireland is now 
governed by a party whose falsehood and subtlety not even 
Machiavelli himself could justify, we are free to declare 
we are ready to join the Nationalists to-morrow, and to cry 
out for a Parliament in College Green, in preference to a 
Holy Inquisition at Westminster.’” 

“That fellow has blood in him,” cried Kearney, with 
enthusiasm, “and I go a long way with him.” 

“ That may be, sir, and I am sorry to hear it,” said 
Walpole, coldly; “but what I am concerned to tell you 
is, that the document or memorandum here alluded to was 
among my papers, and abstracted from them since I have 
been here.” 

“So that there icas actually such a paper?” broke in 
Kearney. 

“There was a paper which the malevolence of a party 
journalist could convert to the support of such a charge. 
What concerns me more immediately is, that it has been 
stolen from my despatch-box.” 

“Are you certain of that?” 

“I believe I can prove it. The only day in which I was 
busied with these papers I carried them down to the library, 
and with my own hands I brought them back to my room 
and placed them under lock and key at once. The box 


CR0S3 PURPOSES. 


367 


bears no trace of having been broken, so that the only 
solution is a key. Perhaps my own key may have been 
used to open it, for the document is gone.” 

“This is a bad business,” said Kearney, sorrowfully. 

“ It is ruin to me,” cried Walpole, with passion. “Here 
is a despatch from Lord Danesbury, commanding me 
immediately to go over to him in Wales, and I can guess 
easily what has occasioned the order.” 

“I’ll send for a force of Dublin detectives. I’ll write 
to the chief of the police. I ’ll not rest till I have eveiy one 
in the house examined on oath,” cried Kearney. “ What 
was it like? Was it a despatch — was it in an envelope? ” 

“ It was a mere memorandum, — a piece of post paper, 
and headed, ‘ Drauglit of instruction touching D. D. For- 
ward to chief constable of police at Letterkennv. October 
9th.’” 

“ But you had no direct correspondence with Donogan?” 
“ I believe, sir, I need not assure you I had not. The 
malevolence of party has alone the merit of such an impu- 
tation. For reasons of state, we desired to observe a certain 
course towards the man, and Orange malignity is pleased to 
misrepresent and calumniate us.” 

“ And can’t you say so in Parliament? ” 

“So we will, sir, and the nation will believe us. Mean- 
while, see the mischief that the miserable slander will reflect 
upon our administration here, and remember that the people 
who could alone contradict the story are those very Fenians 
who will benefit by its being believed.” 

“ Do your suspicions point to any one in particular? Do 
you believe that Curtis — ?” 

“ I had it in my hand the day after he left.” 

“ Was any one aware of its existence here but yourself?” 
“None — wait, I am wrong. Your niece saw it. She 
was in the library one day. I was engaged in writing, and 
as we grew to talk over the country, I chanced to show her 
the despatch.” 

“ Let us ask her if she remembers whether any servant 
was about at the time, or happened to enter the room.” 

“I can myself answer that question. I know there was 
not.” 


368 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Let us call her down and see what she remembers,” said 
Kearney. 

“I’d rather not, sir. A mere question in such a case 
would be offensive, and 1 would not risk the chance. What 
I would most wish is, to place my despatch-box, with the 
key, in your keeping, for the purposes of the inquiry, for I 
must start in half an hour. I have sent for post-horses to 
Moate, and ordered a special train to town. I shall, I hope, 
catch the eight o’clock boat for Holyhead, and be with his 
Lordship before this time to-morrow. If I do not see the 
ladies, for I believe they are out walking, will }^ou make my 
excuses and my adieux? My confusion and discomfiture will, 
I feel sure, plead for me. It would not be, perhaps, too 
much to ask for any information that a police inquiry might 
elicit ; and if either of the young ladies would vouchsafe me 
a line to say what, if anything, has been discovered, I should 
feel deeply gratified.” 

“I ’ll look to that. You shall be informed.” 

“ There was another question that I much desired to speak 
of,” and here he hesitated and faltered; “ but perhaps, on 
every score, it is as well I should defer it till my return to 
Ireland.” 

“ You know best, whatever it is,” said the old man, dryly. 

“Yes, I think so. I am sure of it.” A hurried shake- 
hands followed, and he was gone. 

It is but right to add that a glance at the moment through 
the window had shown him the wearer of a muslin dress 
turning into the copse outside the garden, and Walpole 
dashed down the stairs and hurried in the direction he saw 
Nina take, with all the speed he could. 

“Get my luggage on the carriage, and have everything 
ready,” said he, as the horses were drawn up at the door. 
“ I shall return in a moment.” 


CHAPTER LI. 


AWAKENINGS. 

When Walpole hurried into the beech alley, which he had 
seen Nina take, and followed her in all haste, he did not stop 
to question himself why he did so. Indeed, if prudence 
were to be consulted, there was every reason in the world 
wliy he should ratlier have left his leave-takings to the care 
of jMr. Kearney than assume the charge of them himself ; 
but if young gentlemen who fall in love were only to be logi- 
cal or “consequent,” the tender passion would soon lose 
some of the contingencies which give it much of its charm, 
and people who follow such occupations as mine would dis- 
cover that they had lost one of the principal employments of 
their lifetime. 

As he went along, however, he bethougiit him that as it 
was to say good-bye he now followed her, it behooved him to 
blend his leave-taking with that pledge of a speedy return, 
which, like the effects of light in landscape, bring out tlie 
various tints in the richest coloring, and mark more dis- 
tinctly all that is in shadow. “ I shall at least see,” muttered 
he to himself, “ how far my presence liere serves to brighten 
her daily life, and what amount of gloom my absence will 
suggest.” Cecil Walpole was one of a class, — and I hasten 
to say it is a class, — who, if not very lavish of their own 
affections, or accustomed to draw largely on their own emo- 
tions, are very fond of being loved tliemselves, and not only 
are they convinced that as there can lie nothing more natural 
or reasonable than to love them, it is still a highly com- 
mendable feature in the person who carries that love to the 
extent of a small idolatry, and makes it the business of a life. 
To worship the men of this order constitutes in their eyes a 
species of intellectual superiority for which they are grate- 

24 


370 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


ful, and this same gratitude represents to themselves all of 
love their natures are capable of feeling. 

He knew thoroughly that Nina was not alone the most 
beautiful woman he had ever seen ; that the fascinations of 
her manner, and her grace of movement and gesture, exer- 
cised a sway that was almost magic ; that in quickness to 
apprehend and readiness to reply, she scarcely had an equal ; 
and that whether she smiled, or looked pensive, or listened, 
or spoke, there was an absorbing charm about her that made 
one forget all else around her, and unable to see any but 
her ; and yet, with all this consciousness, he recognized no 
trait about her so thoroughly attractive as that she admired 
him. 

Let me not be misunderstood. This same sentiment can 
be at times something very different from a mere egotism, — 
not that I mean to say it was such in the present case. Cecil 
Walpole fully represented the order he belonged to, and was 
a most well-looking, well-dressed, and well-bred voung gen- 
tleman, only suggesting the reflection that, to live amongst 
such a class pure and undiluted, would be little better than a 
life passed in the midst of French communism. 

I have said that, after his fashion, he was “ in love ” with 
her, and so, after his fasliion, he wanted to say that he was 
going away, and to tell her not to be utterly disconsolate till 
he came back again. “ I can imagine,” thought he, “ how 
I made her life here, how, in developing the features that 
attract me, 1 made her a very different creature to herself.” 

It was not at all unpleasant to him to think that the people 
who should surround her were so unlike himself. “ The 
barbarians,” as he courteously called them to himself, “will 
be very hard to endure. Nor am I very sorry for it, only 
she must catch nothing of their traits in accommodating 
herself to their habits. On that I must strongly insist. 
Whether it be by singing tlieir silly ballads, — that four-note 
melody they call ‘ Irish music,’ — or through mere imitation, 
she has already cauglit a slight accent of the country. She 
must get rid of this. She will have to divest herself of all 
her ‘ Kilgobbinries ’ ere I present her to my friends in town.” 
Apart from these disparagements, slie could, as he expressed 
it, “ hold her own,” and people take a very narrow view of 


AWAKENINGS. 


371 


the social dealings of the world, who fail to see how much 
occasion a woman has for the exercise of tact and temper 
and discretion and ready-wittedness and generosity in all the 
well-bred intercourse of life. Just as Walpole had arrived 
at that stage of reflection to recognize that she was exactly 
the woman to suit him and push his fortunes with the world, 
he reached a part of the wood where a little space had been 
cleared, and a few rustic seats scattered about to make a 
halting-place. The sound of voices caught his ear, and he 
stopped, and now, looking stealthily through the brushwood, 
he saw Gorman O’Shea as he lay in a lounging attitude on a 
bench and smoked his cigar, while Nina Kostalergi was 
busily engaged in pinning up the skirt of her dress in a 
festoon fashion, which, to Cecil’s ideas at least, displayed 
more of a marvellously pretty instep and ankle than he 
thought strictly warranted. Puzzling as this seemed, the 
first words she spoke gave the explanation. 

“ Don’t flatter yourself, most valiant soldier, that you are 
going to teach me the ‘ Czardasz.’ I learned it years ago 
from Tassilo Esterhazy ; but I asked you to come here to 
set me right about that half-minuet step that begins it. 1 
believe I have got into the habit of doing the man’s part, for 
I used to be Pauline Esterhazy’s partner after Tassilo went 
away.” 

“You had a precious dancing-master in Tassilo,” growled 
out O’Shea. “ The greatest scamp in the Austi-ian army.” 

“ I know nothing of the moralities of the Austrian army, 
but the Count was a perfect gentleman, and a special friend 
of mine.” 

“ I am sorry for it,” was the gruff rejoinder. 

“You have nothing to grieve for, sir. You have no 
vested interest to be imperilled by anything that I do.” 

“ Let us not quarrel, at all events,” said he, as he arose 
with some alacrity and flung away his cigar ; and Walpole 
turned away, as little pleased with what he had heard, as 
dissatisfied with himself for having listened. “ And we call 
these things accidents,” muttered he ; “ but I believe fortune 
means more generously by us when she crosses our path in 
this wise. I almost wdsh T had gone a step further, and 
stood before them. At least it would have finished this 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


episode, and without a word. As it is, a mere phrase will 
do it, — the simple question as to what progress she makes in 
dancins; will show I know all. But do I know all? ” Thus 
speculating and ruminating, he went his way till he reached 
the carriage, and drove off at speed, for the first time in his 
life really and deeply in love ! 

He made his journey safely, and arrived at Hol}^head by 
daybreak. He had meant to go over deliberate!}^ all that he 
should say to the Viceroy, when questioned, as he expected 
to be, on the condition of Ireland. It was an old story, and 
with very few variations to enliven it. 

How was it that, with all his Irish intelligence w'ell 
arranged in his mind, — the agrarian crime, the ineffective 
police, the timid juries, the insolence of the popular press, 
and the arrogant demands of the priesthood ; how was it 
that, ready to state all these obstacles to right government, 
and prepared to show that it was only by “ out-jockeying” 
the parties, he could hope to win in Ireland still, — that 
Greek girl, and what he called her perfidy, would occupy a 
most disproportionate share of his thoughts, and a larger 
place in his heart also? The simple truth is, that though up 
to this Walpole found immense pleasure in his flirtation with 
Nina Kostalergi, yet his feeling for her now was nearer 
love than anything he had experienced before. The bare 
suspicion that a woman could jilt him, or the possible thought 
that a rival could be found to supplant him, gave, by the 
very pain it occasioned, such an interest to the episode that 
he could scarcely think of anything else. That the most 
effectual way to deal with the Greek was to renew his old 
relations wdth his cousin Lady JMaude was clear enough. 
“At least I shall seem to be the traitor,” thought he, 
“ and she shall not glory in the thought of having deceived 
While he was still revolvins: these thoughts he ar- 
rived at the Castle, and learned as he crossed the door that 
his Lordship wms impatient to see him. 

Lord Danesbury had never been a fluent speaker in public, 
while in private life a natural indolence of disposition, 
improved, so to say, by an Eastern life, liad made him so 
sparing of his words tliat at times when he was ill or indis- 
posed he could never be said to converse at all, and his talk 


AWAKENINGS. 


373 


consisted of very short sentences strung loosely together, and 
not unfrequently so ill-connected as to show that an unex- 
pressed thought very often intervened between the uttered 
fragments. Except to men who, like Walpole, knew him 
intimately, he was all but unintelligible. The private secre- 
tary, however, understood how to fill up the blanks in any 
discourse, and so follow out indications which, to less prac- 
tised eyes, left no footmarks behind them. 

His Excellency, slowly recovering from a sharp attack of 
gout, was propped by pillows, and smoking a long Turkish 
pipe, as Cecil entered the room and saluted him. Come at 
last,” was his Lordship’s greeting. “Ought to have been 
here weeks ago. Read that.” And he pushed towards him 
a “ Times,” with a mark on the margin : “ To ask the 
Secretary for Ireland whether the statement made by certain 
newspapers in the North of a correspondence between the 
Castle authorities and the Fenian leader was true, and whether 
such correspondence could be laid on the table of the 
House? ” 

“ Read it out,” cried the Viceroy, as Walpole conned over 
the paragraph somewhat slowly to himself. 

“ I think, my Lord, when you have heard a few words of 
explanation from me, you will see that this charge has not the 
gravity these newspaper people would like to attach to it.” 
“Can’t be explained — nothing could justify — infernal 
blunder — and must go.” 

“ Pray, my Lord, vouchsafe me even five minutes.” 

“See it all — balderdash — explain nothing — Cardinal 
more offended than the rest — and here, read.” And he 
pushed a letter towards him, dated Downing Street, and 
marked private. “ The idiot you left behind you has been 
betrayed into writing to the rebels and making conditions 
with them. To disown him now is not enough.” 

“ Really, my Lord, I don’t see why I should submit to the 
indignity of reading more of this.” 

Ilis Excellency crushed the letter in his hand, and puffed 
very vigorously at his pipe, which was nearly extinguished. 
“Must go,” said he, at last, as a fresh volume of smoke 
rolled forth. 

“That I can believe — that I can understand, my Lord. 


374 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


When YOU tell me you cease to endorse my pledges, I feel I 
am a bankrupt in your esteem.” 

“ Others smashed in the same insolvency — inconceivable 
blunder — where was Cartright? — what was Holmes about? 
No one in Dublin to keep you out of this cursed folly? ” 

“Until your Lordship’s patience will permit me to say a 
few words, I cannot hope to justify my conduct.” 

“ No justifying — no explaining — no ! regular smash and 
complete disgrace. Must go.” 

“ I am quite ready to go. Your Excellency has no need 
to recall me to the necessity.” 

“ Knew it all — and against my will, too — said so from 
the first — thing I never liked — nor see my way in. Must 
go — must go.” 

“I presume, 1113^ Lord, I may leave you now. I w'ant a 
bath and a cup of coffee.” 

“ Answer that! ” was the gruff repl}", as he tossed across 
the table a few lines signed, “Bertie Spencer, Private 
Secretary.” 

“ I am directed to request that Mr. AYalpole wdll enable 
the Right Honorable Mr. Annihough to give the flattest 
denial to the enclosed.” 

“That must be done at once,” said the Vicero}^ as the 
other ceased to read the note. 

“ It is impossible, 1113^ Lord ; I cannot deii3" my own hand- 
writing.” 

“Annihough will find some road out of it,” muttered the 
other. “ were a fool, and mistook 3"our instructions, or 
the constahle was a fool and required a misdirection, or the 
Fenian was a fool, whicli he would have been if he gave the 
pledge you ask for. Must go all the same.” 

“ But I am quite ready to go, my Lord,” rejoined M^alpole, 
angrily. “There is no need to insist so often on that 
point.” 

“ "Who talks, — wlio thinks of you^ sir?” cried the other, 
with an irritated manner. “ I speak of myself. It is I must 
resign, — no great sacrifice, perliaps, after all ; stupid office, 
— false position — impracticable people. Make them all 
Papists to-morrow, and ask to be Hindoos. They ’ve got the 
land, and not content if they can’t shoot the landlords ! ” 


AWAKENINGS. 


375 


“ If you think, my Loi’d, that by any personal explanation 
of mine I could enable the Minister to make his answer in 
the House more plausible — ” 

“ Leave the plausibility to himself, sir,” and then he 
added, half aloud; “he’ll be unintelligible enough without 
you. There, go, and get some breakfast, — come back 
afterwards, and I T1 dictate my letter of resignation. Maude 
has had a letter from Atlee. Shrewd fellow, Atlee, — done 
the thing well.” 

As Walpole was near the door, his Excellency said, “ You 
can have Guatemala, if they have not given it away. It will 
get you out of Europe, which is the first thing, and with the 
yellow fever it may do more.” 

“ I am profoundly grateful, my Lord,” said he, bowing 
low. 

“ Maude of course would not go, so it ends that."* 

“I am deeply touched by the interest your Lordship 
vouchsafes to my concerns.” 

“ Try and live five }^ears, and you’ll have a retiring allow- 
ance. The last fellow did, but 'was eaten by a crocodile out 
bathing.” And with this he resumed his “ Times,” and 
turned away, while AYalpole hastened off to his room, in a 
frame of mind very far from comfortable or reassuring. 


CHAPTER LII. 


“ A CHANCE AGREEMENT.” 

As Dick Kearney and young O’Shea had never attained any 
close intimacy, a strange sort of half-jealousy, inexplicable 
as to its cause, served to keep them apart: it was mere 
accident that the two young men met one morning after 
breakfast in the garden, and, on Kearney’s offer of a cigar, 
the few words that followed led to a conversation. 

“ I cannot pretend to give you a choice Havanna, like one 
of AValpole’s,” said Dick, “but 3^011 ’ll perhaps find it 
smokable.” 

“ I’m not difficult,” said the other; “ and as to Mr. Wal- 
pole’s tobacco, I don’t think I ever tasted it.” 

“ And I,” rejoined the other, “ as seldom as I could; I 
mean, only when politeness obliged me.” 

“ I thouglit you liked him? ” said Gorman, shorth". 

“I? Far from it. I thought liim a consummate puppy, 
and I saw that he looked down on us as inveterate savages.” 
“ He was a favorite with your ladies, I think?” 

“Certainly not with my sister, and I doubt very much 
with my cousin. Do you like him ? ” 

“ No, not at all : but then he belongs to a class of men I 
neither understand nor sympathize with. Whatever / know 
of life is associated with downright hard work. As a soldier 
I had my five hours’ daily drill and the care of m}^ equip- 
ments, as a lieutenant I had to see that my men kept to 
their duty, and whenever I chanced to liave a little leisure I 
could not give it up to ennui^ or consent to feel bored and 
wearied.” 

“ And do jmu mean to say jmu had to groom }"our horse 
and clean your arms when you served in the ranks ? ” 


“A CHANCE AGREEMENT.” 


377 


“ Not always. As a cadet I had a soldier-servant, w'hat 
we call a ‘ Hiirsche ; ’ but there were periods when I was out 
of funds, and barely able to grope my way to the next 
quarter day, and at these times I had but one meal a day, 
and obliged to draw my waist-belt pretty tight to make me 
feel I had eaten enough. A Bursche costs very little, but I 
could not spare even that little.” 

“ Confoundedly hard that.” 

“All my own fault. By a little care and foresight, even 
without thrift, I had enough to live as well as I ought; but 
a reckless dash of the old spendthrift blood 1 came of would 
master me now and then, and I’d launch out into some 
extravagance that would leave me penniless for months 
after.” 

“I believe I can understand that. One does get horribly 
bored by the monotony of a well-to-do existence; just as I 
feel my life here — almost insupportable.” 

“But you are going into Parliament; you are going to 
be a great public man.” 

“That bubble has burst already; don’t you know what 
happened at Birr? They tore down all Miller’s notices and 
mine, they smashed our booths, beat our voters out of the 
town, and placed Donogan — the rebel Donogan — at the 
head of the poll, and the Head-Centre is now M.P. for 
King’s County.” 

“And has he a right to sit in the House? ” 

“There ’s the question. The matter is discussed eveiy 
day in the newspapers, and there are as many for as against 
him. Some aver that the popular will is a sovereign edict 
that rises above all eventualities; others assert that the 
sentence which pronounces a man a felon declares him to be 
dead in law.” 

“And which side do you incline to?” 

“I believe in the latter; he ’ll not be permitted to take his 
seat.” 

“You’ll have another chance, then?” 

“No; I’ll venture no more. Indeed, but for this same 
man Donogan, I had never thought of it. He filled my head 
with ideas of a great part to be played and a proud place 
to be occupied, and that, even wdthout high abilities, a man 


378 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


of a strong will, a fixed resolve, and an honest conscience, 
might, at this time, do great things for Ireland.” 

“ And then betrayed you ? ” 

“No such thing; he no more dreamed of Parliament him- 
self than you do now. He knew he was liable to the law, 
he was hiding from the police, and w^ell aware that there 
was a price upon his head.” 

“ But if he was true to you, why did he not refuse this 
honor? why did he not decline to be elected?” 

“They never gave him the choice. Don’t you see it is 
one of the strange signs of the strange times we are living 
in that the people fix upon certain men as their natural 
leaders and compel them to march in the van, and that it is 
the force at the back of these leaders that, far more than 
their talents, makes them formidable in public life?” 

“I only follow it in part. I scarcely see what they aim 
at, and I do not know if they see it more clearly themselves. 
And now, what will you turn to ? ” 

“I wish you could tell me.” 

“About as blank a future as my own,” muttered Gor- 
man. 

“Come, come, yon have a career. You are a lieutenant 
of lancers ; in time you will be a captain, and eventuall}^ 
a colonel, and who knows but a general at last, with 
Heaven knows how many crosses and medals on your 
breast.” 

“Nothing less likely; the day is gone by when English- 
men were advanced to places of high honor and trust in the 
Austrian arm}^ There are no more field-marshals like 
Nugent than major-generals like O’Connell. I might be 
made a Rittmeister, and if 1 lived long enough, and was 
not superannuated, a major; but there my ambition must 
cease.” 

“And you are content with that prospect?” 

“Of course I am not. I go back to it with something 
little short of despair.” 

“Why go back, then?” 

“Tell me what else to do; tell me what other road in life 
to take; show me even one alternative.” 

The silence that now succeeded lasted several minutes, 


“A CHANCE AGREEMENT.” 


379 


each immersed iu his own thoughts, and each, doubtless, 
convinced how little presumption he had to advise or couii' 
sel the other. 

“Do you know, O’Shea,” cried Kearney, “I used to fancy 
that this Austrian life of yours was a mere caprice; that 
3 ’ou took ‘ a cast,’ as we call it in the hunting-field, amongst 
those fellows to see what they were like and what’ sort of an 
existence was theirs; but that being your aunt’s heir, and 
with a snug estate that must one day come to you, it was a 
mere ‘ lark,’ and not to be continued beyond a year or 
two? ” 

“Not a bit of it. I never presumed to think I should be 
my aunt’s heir, — and now, less than ever. Do you know 
that even the small pension she has allowed me hitherto is 
now about to be withdrawn, and I shall be left to live on 
my pay?” 

“How much does that mean?” 

“A few pounds more or less than you pay for youi 
saddle-horse at livery at Dycer’s.” 

“You don’t mean that? ” 

“I do mean it; and even that beggarly pittance is 
stopped when I am on my leave; so that at this moment my 
whole worldly wealth is here,” and he took from his pocket 
a handful of loose coin, in which a few gold pieces glittered 
amidst a mass of discolored and smooth-looking silver. 

“On my oath, I believe you are the richer man of the 
two,” cried Kearney; “for, except a few half-crowns on my 
dressing-table, and some coppers, I don’t believe I am 
master of a coin with the Queen’s image.” 

“1 say, Kearney, what a horrible take-in we should prove 
to mothers with daughters to marrv ! ” 

“Not a bit of it. You may impose upon any one else, 
— your tailor, your boot-maker, even the horsey gent that 
jobs your cabriolet, — but you ’ll never cheat the mamma 
who has the daughter on sale.” 

Gorman could not help laughing at the more than ordinary 
irritability with which these words were spoken, and 
charged him at last with having uttered a personal 
experience. 

“True, after all,” said Dick, half indolently. 


“ I used 


380 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


to spoon a pretty girl up in Dublin, ride with her when I 
could, and dance with her at all the balls; and a certain 
chum of mine — a Joe Atlee, of whom you may have heard 
— undertook, simply by a series of artful rumors as to my 
future prospects, — now extolling me as a man of fortune 
and a fine estate, to-morrow exhibiting me as a mere pre- 
tender with a mock title and mock income, — to determine 
how 1 should be treated in this family ; and he would say to 
me, ‘ Dick, you are going to be asked to dinner on Saturday 
next; ’ or, ‘ I say, old fellow, they ’re going to’leave you out 
of that picnic at Powerscourt. You ’ll find the Clanc^^s 
rather cold at your next meeting.’” 

“And he would be right in his guess?” 

“To the letter! Ay, and I shame to say that the young 
girl answered the signal as promptly as the mother.” 
hoped it cured you of your passion? ” 

“I don’t know that it did. When you begin to like a 
girl, and find that she has regularly installed herself in a 
corner of your heart, there is scarcely a thing she can do 
you’ll not discover a good reason for; and even when your 
ingenuity fails, go and pay a visit. There is some artful 
witchery in that creation you have built up about her, — for 
I heartily believe most of us are merely clothing a sort of 
lay figure of loveliness with attributes of our fanc}^ — and 
the end of it is, we are about as wise about our idols as the 
South Sea savages in their homage to the gods of their own 
carving.” 

“I don’t think that!” said Gorman, sternly. “I could 
no more invent the fascination that charms me than I could 
model a Venus or an Ariadne.” 

“I see where your mistake lies. You do all this, and 
never know you do it. Mind, I am only giving you Joe 
Atlee’s theory all this time; for, though I believe in, I never 
invented it.” 

“And who is Atlee?” 

“ A chum of mine — a clever dog enough — who, as he 
says himself, takes a very low opinion of mankind, and, in 
consequence, finds this a capital world to live in.” 

“1 should hate the fellow.” 

“Not if you met him. He can be very companionable. 


“A CHANCE AGREEMENT.” 381 

though I uever saw auy one take less trouble to please. He 
is popular almost everywhere.” 

“1 know I should hate him.” 

“My cousin Nina thought the same, and declared from 
the mere sight of his photograph that he was false and 
treacherous, and Heaven knows what else besides; and now 
she 11 not suffer a word in his disparagement. She began 
exactly as you say you would, by a strong prejudice against 
him. T remember the day he came down here, — her man- 
ner towards him was more than distant; and I told my sister 
Kate how it offended me, and Kate only smiled and said, 

‘ Have a little patience, Dick.’ ” 

“And you took the advice? You did have a little 
patience ? ” 

“Yes; and the end is they are firm friends. I ’m not sure 
they don’t correspond.” 

“Is there love in the case, then?” 

“That is what I cannot make out. So far as I know 
either of them, there is no trustfulness in their dispositions; 
each of them must see into the nature of the other. I have 
heard Joe Atlee say, ‘ AVith that woman for a wife a man 
might safely bet on his success in life.’ And she lierself 
one day owned, ‘ If a girl was obliged to marry a man with- 
out sixpence, she might take Atlee.’ ” 

“So, 1 have it, they will be man and wife yet! ” 

“Who knows! Have another weed?” 

Gorman declined the offered cigar, and again a pause in 
the conversation followed. At last he suddenly said, “She 
told me she thought she would marry AYalpole.” 

“She told yon that? How did it come about to make 
you such a confidence?” 

“Just this way. I was getting a little — not spoone}" — 
])ut attentive, and rather liked hanging after her; and in 
one of our walks in the wood — and there was no flirting at 
the time between us — she suddenh^ said, ‘I don’t think you 
are half a bad fellow. Lieutenant.’ ‘ Thanks for the compli- 
ment,’ said I, coldly. She never heeded my remark, but 
went on, ‘ I mean, in fact, that if you had something to live 
for, and somebody to care about, there is just the sort of 
stuff in vou to make you equal to both.’ Not exactlv know- 


382 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


ing what I said, and half, only half in earnest, I answered, 
‘ Why can I not have one to care for? ’ And I looked ten- 
derly into her eyes as I spoke. She did not wince under 
my glance. Her face was calm, and her color did not 
change; and she was full a minute before she said, with a 
faint sigh, ‘ I suppose I shall marry Cecil Walpole.’ ‘ Do 
you mean,’ said I, ‘ against your will? ’ ‘ AYho told you I 

had a will, sir? ’ said she, haughtily; ‘ or that if 1 had I 
should now be walking here in this wood alone with you ? 
No, no,’ added she, hurriedly, ‘ you cannot understand me. 
There is nothing to be offended at. Go and gather me 
some of those wild flowers, and we ’ll talk of something 
else.’ ” 

“How like her! — how like her!” said Dick, and then 
looked sad and pondered. “I was very near falling in love 
with her myself! ” said he, after a considerable pause. 

“She has a way of curing a man if he should get into 
such an indiscretion,” muttered Gorman; and there was 
bitterness in his voice as he spoke. 

“Listen! listen to that!” and from the open window of 
the house there came the prolonged cadence of a full, sweet 
voice, as Nina was singing an Irish ballad air. “That’s 
for my father! ‘ Kathleen Mavourneen ’ is one of his favor- 
ites, and she can make him cry over it.” 

“I’m not very soft-hearted,” muttered Gorman, “but 
she gave me a sense of fulness in the throat, like choking, 
the other da}% that I vowed to myself I ’d never listen to 
that song again.” 

“It is not her voice — it is not the music — there is some 
witchery in the woman herself that does it,” cried Dick, 
almost fiercely. “Take a walk with her in the wood, saun- 
ter down one of these alleys in the garden, and I ’ll be shot 
if your heart will not begin to beat in another fashion, and 
your brain to weave all sorts of bright fancies, in which she 
will form the chief figure; and though you’ll be half in- 
clined to declare your love, and swear that you cannot live 
without her, some terror will tell you not to break the spell 
of your delight, but to go on walking there at her side, and 
hearing her words, just as though that ecstasy could last 
forever.” 


"A CHANCE AGREEMENT.” 


383 


“I suspect you are iu love with her,” said O’Shea, dryly. 
“Not uow, not now; and I’ll take care not to have a 
relapse,” said he, gravely. 

“How do you mean to manage that? ” 

“The only one way it is possible, — not to see her, nor to 
hear her; not to live in the same land with her. I have 
made up my mind to go to Australia. I don’t well know 
what to do when I get there; but whatever it be, and what- 
ever it cost me to bear, I shall meet it without shrinking, 
for there will be no old associates to look on and remark 
upon my shabby clothes and broken boots.” 

“What will the passage cost you?” asked Gorman, 
eagerly. 

“I have ascertained that for about fifty pounds I can land 
myself in Melbourne; and if I have a ten-pound note 
after, it is as much as I mean to provide.” 

“If I can raise the money, I ’ll go with you,” said O’Shea. 
“Will you? is this serious? is it a promise?” 

“I pledge my word on it. I ’ll go over to the Barn to-day 
and see my aunt. I thought up to this I could not bring 
myself to go there, but I will now. It is for the last time 
in my life, and I must say good-bye, whether she helps me 
or not.” 

“You ’ll scarcely like to ask her for money,” said Dick. 
“Scarcely; at all events, I ’ll see her, and I ’ll tell her that 
I ’m going away, with no other thought in m}?^ mind than of 
all the love and affection she had for me; worse luck mine 
that I have not got them still.” 

“Shall I walk over with — ? would 3mu rather be alone? ” 
“I believe so! I think I should like to be alone.” 

“Let us meet, then, on this spot, to-morrow, and decide 
what is to bb done? ” 

“Agreed,” cried O’Shea, and with a warm shake-hands 
to ratify the pledge, the}" parted; Dick towards the lower 
part of the garden, while O’Shea turned towards the house. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


“a scrape.” 

We have all of us felt how depressing is the sensation felt 
in a family circle in the first meeting after the departure of 
their guests. The friends who have been staying some time 
in your house not only bring to the common stock their share 
of pleasant converse and companionship, but, in the quality 
of strangers, the}" exact a certain amount of effort for their 
amusement, which is better for him who gives than for the 
recipient; and they impose that small reserve which 
excludes the purely personal inconveniences and contrarie- 
ties, which, unhappily, in strictly family intercourse, have 
no small space allotted them for discussion. 

It is but right to say that they who benefit most by, and 
most gratefully acknowledge this boon of the visitors, are 
the young. The elders, sometimes more disposed to indo- 
lence than effort, sometimes irritable at the check essen- 
tially put upon many little egotisms of daily use, and oftener 
than either, perhaps, glad to get back to the old groove of 
home discussion, unrestrained by the presence of stran- 
gers ; the elders, I say, are now and then given to express 
a most ungracious gratitude for being once again to them- 
selves, and free to be as confidential, and outspoken, and 
disagreeable as their hearts desire. 

The dinner at Kilgobbin Castle on the day I speak of, 
consisted solely of the Kearney family, and, except in the 
person of the old man himself, no trace of pleasantry could 
be detected. Kate had her own share of anxieties. A 
number of notices had been served by refractory tenants 
for dehiands they were about to prefer for improvements, 
under the new land act. The passion for litigation so dear 
to the Irish peasant’s heart, — that sense of having some- 
thing to be quibbled for, so exciting to the imaginative 


385 


“A SCRAPE" 

nature of the Celt, had taken possession of all the tenants 
on the estate, and even the well-to-do and the satisfied were 
now bestirring themselves to think if they had not some 
grievance to be turned into profit, and some possible hard- 
ship to be discounted into an abatement. 

Dick Kearney, entirely preoccupied by the thought of his 
intended journey, already began to feel that the things of 
home touched him no longer. A few months more and he 
should be far away from Ireland and her interests ; and why 
should he harass himself about the contests of party or the 
balance of factions, which never again could have any bear- 
ing on his future life? His whole thought was what arrange- 
ment he could make with his father by which, for a little 
present assistance, he might surrender all his right on the 
entail, and give up Kilgobbin forever. 

As for Nina, her complexities were too many and too 
much interwoven for our investigation, and there were 
thoughts of all the various persons she had met in Ireland, 
mingled with scenes of the past, and, more strangely still, 
the people placed in situations and connections which by 
no likelihood should they ever have occupied. The thought 
that the little comedy of every-day life, which she relished 
immensely, was now to cease for lack of actors, made her 
serious, almost sad, — and she seldom spoke during the 
meal. 

At Lord Kilgobbin’s request, that they would not leave 
him to take his wine alone, they drew their chairs round the 
dining-room fire; but, except the bright glow of the ruddy 
turf and the pleasant look of the old man himself, there was 
little that smacked of the agreeable fireside. 

“What has come over you giiTs this evening? ” said the 
old man. “Are you in love, or has the man that ought to 
be in love with either of you discovered it was only a mis- 
take he was making ? ” 

“Ask Nina, sir,” said Kate, gravely. 

“Perhaps you are right, uncle,” said Nina, dreamily. 

“In which of my guesses, — the first or the last? ” 

“Don’t puzzle me, sir, for I have no head for a subtle 
distinction. I only meant to say it is not so easy to be in 
love without mistakes. You mistake realities and traits 


25 


386 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


for something not a bit like them, and you mistake yourself 
by imagining that you mind them.” 

“I don’t think 1 understand you,” said the old man. 
“Very likely not, sir. I do not know if I had a meaning 
that I could explain.” 

“Nina wants to tell you, my Lord, that the right man has 
not come forward yet, and she does not know whether she ’ll 
keep the place open in her heart for him any longer,” said 
Dick, with a half malicious glance. 

“That terrible Cousin Dick! nothing escapes him,” said 
Nina, with a faint smile. 

“Is there any more in the newspapers about that scandal 
of the Government?” cried the old man, turning to Kate. 
“Is there not going to be some inquiry as to whether his 
Excellency wu’ote to the Fenians?” 

“There are a few words here, papa,” cried Kate, opening 
the paper. “ ‘ In reply to the question of Sir Barnes Malone 
as to the late communications alleged to have passed be- 
tween the head of the Irish Government and the Head- 
Centre of the Fenians, the Right Honorable the First Lord 
of the Treasury said, “That the question would be more 
properly addressed to the noble Lord the Secretary for Ire- 
land, who was not then in the House. Meanwhile, sir,” 
continued he, “I will take on myself the responsibilit}^ of 
saying that in this, as in a variety of other cases, the zeal 
of party has greatly outstripped the discretion that should 
govern political warfare. The exceptional state of a nation, 
in which the administration of justice mainly depends on 
those aids which a rigid morality might disparage; the 
social state of a people whose integrity calls for the appli- 
cation of means the most certain to disseminate distrust and 
disunion, — are facts which constitute reasons for political 
action that, however assailable in the mere abstract, the 
mind of statesmanlike form will at once accept as solid and 
effective, and to reject which would only show that, in over- 
looking the consequences of sentiment, a man can ignore 
the most vital interests of his country.” ’ ” 

“Does he say that they wrote to Donogan? ” cried Kilgob- 
bin, whose patience had been sorely pushed by the Premier’s 
exordium. 


“A SCRAPEA 


387 


“Let me read on, papa.” 

“ Skip all that, and get down to a simple question and 
answer, Kitty; don’t read the long sentences.” 

“This is how he winds up, papa. ‘ “ I trust I have now, 
sir, satisfied the House that there are abundant reasons why 
this correspondence should not be produced on the table, 
while I have further justified my noble friend for a course 
of action in wLich the humanity of the man takes no lustre 
from the glory of the statesman,” — then there are some 
words in Latin, — ‘ and the Right Honorable gentleman 
resumed his seat amidst loud cheers, in which some of the 
Opposition were heard to join.’ ” 

“ I want to be told, after all, did they write the letter to 
say Donogan was to be let escape?” 

“Would it have been a great crime, uncle?” said Nina, 
artlessly. 

“ I’m not going into that. I ’m only asking what the 
people over us say is the best way to govern us. I ’d like 
to know, once for all, what was wrong and what was right 
in Ireland.” 

“Has not the Premier just told you, sir,” replied Nina, 
“that it is always the reverse of wLat obtains everywhere 
else?” 

“I have had enough of it, anyhow,” cried Dick, who, 
though not intending it before, now was carried away by a 
momentary gust of passion to make the avowal. 

“Have you been in the Cabinet all this time, then, with- 
out our knowing it?” asked Nina, archly. 

“It is not of the Cabinet I was speaking. Mademoiselle. 
It was of the country.” And he answered haughtily. 

“And where would you go, Dick, and find better?” said 
Kate. 

“Anywhere. I should find better in America, in Canada, 
in the Far West, in New Zealand, — but I mean to try in 
Australia.” 

“And what will you do when you get there?” asked Kil- 
gobbin, with a grim humor in his look. 

“Do tell me. Cousin Dick; for who knows that it might 

» 

not suit me also.” 

Young Kearney filled his glass, and drained it without 


388 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


speaking. At last he said, “It will be for you, sir, to say 
if I make the trial. It is clear enough, I have no course 
open to me here. For a few hundred pounds, or, indeed, 
for anything you like to give me, you get rid of me forever. 
It will be the one piece of economy my whole life 
comprises.” 

“Stay at home, Dick, and give to your own country the 
energy you are willing to bestow on a strange land,” said 
Kate. 

“And labor side by side with the peasant I have looked 
down upon since I was able to walk.” 

“Don’t look down on him, then; do it no longer. If you 
would treat the first stranger you met in the bush as your 
equal, begin the Christian practice in your own country.” 
“But he needn’t do that at all,” broke in the old man. 
“If he -would take to strong shoes and early rising here at 
Kilgobbin, he need never go to Geelong for a living. Your 
great-grandfathers lived here for centuries, and the old 
house that sheltered them is still standing.” 

“What should I stay for — ? ” He had got thus far when 
his eyes met Nina’s, and he stopped and hesitated; and, 
as a deep blush covered his face, faltered out, “Gorman 
O’Shea sa^'s he is ready to go with me, and two fellows with 
less to detain them in their own country would be hard to 
find,” 

“O’Shea will do well enough,” said the old man; “he was 
not brought up to kid-leather boots and silk linings in his 
great-coat. There ’s stuff in him ; and if it comes to sleep- 
ing under a haystack or dining on a red-herring, he ’ll not 
rise up with rheumatism or heart-burn. And what ’s better 
than all, he ’ll not think himself a hero because he mends his 
own boots or lights his own kitchen-fire.” 

“A letter for your honor,” said the servant, entering with 
a very informal-looking note on coarse paper, and fastened 
with a wafer. “The gossoon, sir, is waiting for an answer; 
he run every mile from Moate.” 

“ Read it, Kitty,” said the old man, not heeding the ser- 
vant’s comment. 

“It is dated ‘Moate Jail, seven o’clock,’” said Kitty, as 
she read: “‘Dear Sir, — I have got into a stupid scrape, 


“A SCRAPE.” 


389 


and have been committed to jail. Will you come, or send 
some one to bail me out. The thing is a mere trifle, but the 
“ being locked up ” is very hard to bear. Yours always, — 
G. O’Shea.’ ” 

“ Is this more Fenian work? ” cried Kilgobbin. 

“I’m certain it is not, sir,” said Dick. “ Gorman O’Shea 
has no liking for them, nor is he the man to sympathize 
with what he owns he cannot understand. It is a mere 
accidental row.” 

“At all events we must see to set him at liberty. Order 
the gig, Dick, and while they are putting on the harness I ’ll 
finish this decanter of port. If it was n’t that we ’re getting 
retired shopkeepers on the bench we ’d not see an O’Shea 
sent to prison like a gossoon that stole a bunch of turnips.” 

“What has he been doing, I wonder?” said Nina, as she 
drew her arm within Kate’s and left the room. 

“Some loud talk in the bar-parlor, perhaps,” was Kate’s 
reply, and the toss of her head as she said it implied more 
even than the words. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


“ HOW IT BEFELL.” 

AYiiile Lord Kilgobbin and his sou are plodding along 
towards Moate with a horse not long released from the 
harrow, and over a road whicli the late rains had sorely 
damaged, the moment is not inopportune to explain the 
nature of the incident, small enough in its way, that called 
on them for this journey at nightfall. It befell that w^hen 
Miss Betty, indignant at her nephew’s defection, and out- 
raged that he should descend to call at Kilgobbin, determined 
to cast him off forever, she also resolved upon a project 
over which she had long meditated, and to which the con- 
versation at her late dinner greatly predisposed her. 

The growing unfertility of the land, the sturdy rejection 
of the authority of the Church, manifested in so many ways 
by the people, had led Miss O’Shea to speculate more on the 
insecurity of landed property in Ireland than all the long 
list of outrages scheduled at Assizes, or all the burning 
haggards that ever flared in a wintry sk}L Her notion was 
to retire into some religious sisterhood, and, away from life 
and its cares, to pass her remaining years in holy meditation 
and piety. She would have liked to have sold her estate and 
endowed some house or convent with tlie proceeds ; but there 
were certain legal difficulties that stood in the way, and her 
law agent, McKeown, must be seen and conferred with 
about these. 

Her moods of passion were usually so very violent that 
she would stop at nothing ; and in the torrent of her anger 
she would decide on a course of action which would color a 
whole lifetime. On the present occasion her first step was to 
write and acquaint McKeown that she would be at Moodie’s 


“HOW IT BEFELL.” 


391 


Hotel, Dominick Street, the same evening, and begged he 
might call there at eight or nine o’clock, as her business with 
him was pressing. Her next care was to let the house and 
lands of O’Shea’s Darn to Peter Gill, for the term of one 
year, at a rent scarcely more than nominal, the said Gill 
binding himself to maintain the gardens, the shrubberies, 
and all the ornamental plantings in their accustomed order 
and condition. In fact, the extreme moderation of the rent 
was to be recompensed by the large space allotted to unprofit- 
able land, and the great care he was pledged to exercise in 
its preservation, and while nominally the tenant, so manifold 
were the obligations imposed on him, he was in reality very 
little other than the care-taker of O’Shea’s Barn and its de- 
pendencies. No fences were to be altered, or boundaries 
changed. All the copses of young timber were to be care- 
fully protected by palings as heretofore, and even the or- 
namental cattle — the short-horns, and the Alderneys — and 
a few favorite “Kerries” were to be kept on the allotted 
paddocks ; and to old Kattoo herself was allotted a loose box, 
with a small field attached to it, where she might saunter at 
will, and ruminate over the less happy cpiadrupeds that had 
to work for their subsistence. 

Now, though Miss Betty, in the full torrent of her anger, 
had that much of method in her madness to remember the 
various details, whose interests were the business of her 
daily life, and so far made provision for the future of her 
pet cows and horses and dogs and guinea-fowls, so that if 
she should ever resolve to return she should find all as she 
had left it, — the short paper of agreement by which she ac- 
cepted Gill as her tenant was drawn up by her own hand, 
unaided by a lawyer ; and, whether from the intemperate 
haste of the moment, or an unbounded confidence in Gill’s 
honesty and fidelit}% was not only carelessly expressed, but 
worded in a way that implied how her trustfulness exone- 
rated her from anything beyond the expression of what she 
wished for and what she believed her tenant would strictly 
perform. Gill’s repeated phrase of “ Whatever her honor’s 
ladyship liked ” had followed every sentence as she read 
the document aloud to him ; and the only real puzzle she 
had was to explain to the poor man’s simple comprehension 


392 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


that she was not making a hard bargain with him, but treat- 
ing him handsomely and in all confidence. 

Shrewd and sharp as the old lady was, versed in the habits 
of the people, and long trained to suspect a certain air of 
dulness, by which, when asking the explanation of a point, 
they watch, with a native casuistry, to see what fiaw or 
chink may open an equivocal meaning or intention, — she 
was thoroughly convinced b}^ the simple and unreasoning 
concurrence this humble man gave to every proviso, and 
the hearty assurance he always gave “that her honor knew 
what was best. God reward and keep her long in the way 
to do it ! ” — with all this. Miss O’Shea had not accomplished 
the first stage of her journey to Dublin, when Peter Gill was 
seated in the office of Pat McEvoy, the attorney at Moate, 
— a smart practitioner, who had done more to foster litiga- 
tion between tenant and landlord than all the “grievances” 
that ever w^ere placarded by the press. 

“When did you get this, Peter? ” said the attorney, as he 
looked about, unable to find a date. 

“This morning, sir, just before she started.” 

“You’ll have to come before the magistrate and make 
an oath of the date, and, by my conscience, it ’s worth 
the trouble.” 

“ Wh}", sir, what ’s in it? ” cried Peter, eager!}". 

“ I ’m no lawyer if she has n’t given }"ou a clear possession 
of the place, subject to certain trusts, and even for the non- 
performance of these there is no penalty attached.. When 
Councillor Holmes comes down at the Assizes, I ’ll lay a case 
before him, and 1 ’ll wager a trifle, Peter, you will turn out 
to be an estated gentleman.” 

“Blood alive! ” was all Peter could utter. 

Though the conversation that ensued occupied more than 
an hour, it is not necessary that we should repeat what 
occurred, nor state more than the fact that Peter went 
home fully assured that if O’Shea’s Barn was not his own 
indisputably, it would be very hard to dispossess him, and 
that, at all events, the occupation was secure to him for 
the present. The importance that the law always attaches 
to possession Mr. McEvoy took care to impress on Gill’s 
mind, and he fully convinced him that a forcible seizure 


“HOW IT BEFELL.” 393 

of the premises was far more to be apprehended than the 
slower process of a suit and a verdict. 

It was about the third week after this opinion had been 
given, when young O’Shea walked over from Kilgobbin 
Castle to the Barn, intending to see his aunt and tale his 
farewell of her. 

Though he had steeled his heart against the emotion such 
a leave-taking was likely to evoke, he was in nowise prepared 
for the feelings the old place itself would call up, and as he 
opened a little wicket that led by a shrubbery walk to the 
cottage, he was glad to throw himself on the first seat he 
could find, and wait till his heart could beat more meas- 
uredly. What a strange thing was life, — at least that 
conventional life we make for ourselves, — was his thought 
now. “Here am I ready to cross the globe, to be the 
servant, the laborer of some rude settler in the wilds of 
Australia, and yet I cannot be the herdsman here, and 
tend the cattle in the scenes that I love, where every tree, 
every bush, every shady nook, and every running stream is 
dear to me. I cannot serve my own kith and kin, but 
must seek my bread from the stranger ! This is our glo- 
rious civilization. I should like 'to hear in what consists 
its marvellous advantage.” 

And then he began to think of those men of whom he 
had often heard, — gentlemen and men of refinement, — 
who had gone out to Australia, and who, in all the drudg- 
eiy of daily labor, — herding cattle on the plains or 
conducting droves of horses long miles of wa}", — still 
managed to retain the habits of their better days, and, by 
the instinct of the breeding which had become a nature, 
to keep intact in their hearts the thoughts and the sym- 
pathies and the affections that made them gentlemen. 

“If my dear aunt only knew me as I know myself, she 
would let me stay here and serve her as the humblest 
laborer on her land. I can see no indignity in being poor 
and faring hardl}^ I have known coarse food and coarse 
clothing, and I never found that they either damped my 
courage or soured my temper.” 

It might not seem exactly the appropriate moment to have 
bethought him of the solace of companionship in such pov- 


394 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


erty, but somehow his thoughts did take that flight, and 
imwarrantable as was the notion, he fancied himself returu- 
ino- at niohtfall to his lowly cabin, and a certain girlish 
figure, whom our reader knows as Kate Kearney, standing 
watching for his coming. 

There was no one to be seen about as he approached the 
house. The hall door, however, lay open. He entered and 
passed on to the little breakfast-parlor on the left. The 
furniture was the same as before, but a coarse fustian 
jacket was thrown on the back of a chair, and a clay pipe 
and a paper of tobacco stood on the table. While he was 
examining these objects with some attention, a very ragged 
urchin, of some ten or eleven years, entered the room with 
a furtive step, and stood watching him. From this fellow 
all that he could hear was that Miss Betty was gone away, 
and that Peter was at the Kilbeggan Market, and though 
he tried various questions, no other answers than these 
were to be obtained. Gorman now tried to see the draw- 
ing-room and the library, but these, as well as the dining- 
room, were all locked. He next essayed the bedrooms, 
but with the same unsuccess. At length he turned to his 
own well-known corner, — the well-remembered little green- 
room,” — which he loved to think his own. This, too, was 
locked ; but Gorman remembered that by pressing the door 
underneath with his walking-stick he could lift the bolt 
from the old-fashioned receptacle that held it, and open the 
door. Curious to have a last look at a spot dear by so 
many memories, he tried the old artifice and succeeded. 

He had still on his watch-chain the little ke}" of an old 
marquetrie cabinet, where he was wont to write, and now 
he was determined to write a last letter to his aunt from 
the old spot, and send her his good-b}^e from the vei’y cor- 
ner where he had often come to wish her “ good-night.” 

He opened the Avindow and walked out on the little 
wooden balcony, from which the view extended over the" 
lawn and the broad belt of wood that fenced the demesne. 
The Sliebh Bloom IMountain shone in the distance, and in 
the calm of an evening sunlight the whole picture had 
something in its silence and peacefulness of almost raptur- 
ous charm. 


“HOW IT BEFELL” 


395 


Who is there amongst us that has not felt, in walking 
through the room of some uninhabited house, with every 
appliance of human comfort strewn about, ease and luxury 
within, wavy trees and sloping lawn or eddying waters 
without, — Avho, in seeing all these, has not questioned him- 
self as to why this should be deserted? and why is there 
none to taste and feel all the blessedness of such a lot 
as life here should offer? Is not the world full of these 
places? is not the puzzle of this query of all lands and of 
all peoples? That ever-present delusion of what we should 
do, what be if we were aught other than ourselves, — 
how happy, how contented, how unrepining, and how good, 
— ay, even our moral nature comes into the compact, — 
this delusion, I say, besets most of us through life, and we 
never weary of believing how cruelly fate has treated us, 
and how unjust destiny has been to a variety of good gifts 
and graces which are doomed to die unrecognized and 
unrequited. 

I will not go to the length of saying that Gorman 
O’Shea’s reflections went thus far, though they did go to 
the extent of wondering why his aunt had left this lovely 
spot, and asked himself, again and again, where she could 
possibly have found anything to replace it. 

“My dearest aunt,” wrote he, “in my own old room at the 
dear old desk, and on the spot knitted to my heart by happiest 
memories. 1 sit down to send yon mvlast o;ood-bve ere I leave Ireland 
forever. 

“ It is in no mood of passing fretfulness or impatience that I 
resolve to go and seek my fortune in Australia. As T feel now, 
lielieving you are displeased with me, I have no heart to go further 
into the question of my own selfish interests, nor say why I resolve 
to give up soldiering, and why I turn to a new existence. Had I 
been to you what I have hitherto been, had I the assurance that I 
possessed the old claim on your love which made me regard you as 
a dear mother, I should tell you of every step that has led me to this 
determination, and how carefully and anxiously I tried to study what 
might be the turning-point of my life.’' 

When he had written thus far and his eyes had already 
grown glassy with the tears which would force their way 
across them, a heavy foot was heard on the stairs, the 


396 


LORI) KILGOBBIN. 


door was burst rudely open, and Peter Gill stood before 
him. 

No longer, however, the old peasant in shabby clothes 
and with his look half-shy, half-sycophant, but vulgarly 
dressed in broadcloth and bright buttons, a tall hat on 
liis head, and a crimson cravat round his neck. His face 
was flushed, and his eye flashing and insolent, so that 
O’Shea only feebly recognized him by his voice. 

“You thought you ’d be loo quick for me, young man,” 
said the fellow, and the voice in its thickness showed he had 
been drinking, “and that you would do your bit of writ- 
ing there before I’d be back; but I was up to you.” 

“ I really do not know what you mean,” cried O’Shea, 
rising; “ and as it is only too plain you have been drinking, 
I do not care to ask you.” 

“Whether 1 was drinking or no is my own business; 
there’s none to call me to account now. I am here in my 
own house, and I order you to leave it, and if }^ou don’t go 
by the w^ay you came in, by my soul 3^011 ’ll go by that win- 
dow ! ” A loud bang of his stick on the floor gave the 
emphasis to the last words ; and whether it was the action or 
the absurd figure of the man himself overcame O’Shea, he 
burst out in a hearty laugh as he surveyed him. “ I ’ll make 
it no laughing matter to you,” cried Gill, wild with passion ; 
and, stepping to the door, he cried out, “Come up, boys, 
every man of }^e; come up and see the chap that’s tiding to 
turn me out of my holding.” 

The sound of voices and the tramp of feet outside now 
drew O’Shea to the window, and, passing out on the balcony, 
he saw a considerable crowd of country people assembled 
beneath. Tlie^’’ were all armed with sticks, and had that 
look of mischief and darins; so unmistakable in a mob. As 
the young man stood looking at them, some one pointed him 
out to the rest, and a wild 3^ell, mingled with hisses, now 
broke from the crowd. He was turning awa3" from the spot 
in disgust when he found that Gill had stationed himself at 
the window, and barred the passage. 

“ The boys want another look at ye,” said Gill, insolently ; 
* “ go back and show yourself : it is not every da3^ they see 
an informer.” 





“HOW IT BEFELL.” 


397 


“ Stand back, you old fool, and let me pass,” cried 
O’Shea. 

“ Touch me if you dare ; only lay one finger on me in my 
own house,” said the fellow; and he grinned almost in his 
face as he spoke. 

“ Stand back,” said Gorman, and, suiting the action to the 
word, he raised his arm to make space for him to pass out. 
Gill, no sooner did he feel the arm graze his chest, than he 
struck O’Shea across the face ; and though the blow was that 
of an old man, the insult was so maddening that O’Shea, 
seizing him by the arms, dragged him out upon the balcony. 

“ He ’s going to throw the old man over,” cried several of 
those beneath; and, amidst the tumult of voices, a number 
soon rushed up the stairs and out on the balcony, where the 
old fellow was clinging to O’Shea’s legs in his despairing 
attempt to save himself. The struggle scarcely lasted many 
seconds ; for the rotten wood-work of the balcony creaked 
and trembled, and at last gave way with a crash, bringing 
the whole party to the ground together. 

' A score of sticks rained their blows on the luckless young 
man, and each time that he tried to rise he was struck back 
and rolled over by a blow or a kick, till at length he lay 
still and senseless on the sward, his face covered with blood 
and his clothes in ribbons. 

“ Put him in a cart, boys, and take him off to the Jail,” 
said the attorney, McEvoy. “ We’ll be in a scrape about 
all this, if we don’t make him in the wrong.” 

His audience fully appreciated the counsel, and while a 
few were busied in carrying old Gill to the house — for a 
broken leg made him unable to reach it alone — the others 
placed O’Shea on some straw in a cart, and set out with him 
to Kilbeggan. 

“ It is not a trespass at all,” said McEvoy. “ I’ll make 
it a burglary and forcible entry, and if he recovers at all, 
I ’ll stake my reputation I transport him for seven years.” 

A hearty murmur of approval met the speech ; and the 
procession, with the cart at their head, moved on towards 
the town. 


CHAPTER LV. 


TWO J. P.’s. 

It was the Tory magistrate, Mr. Flood, — the same who had 
ransacked Walpole’s correspondence, — before whom the in- 
formations were sworn against Gorman O’Shea ; and the old 
justice of the peace was, in secret, not sorry to see the ques- 
tion of land-tenure a source of dispute and quarrel amongst 
the very party who w^ere always inveighing against the 
landlords. 

When Lord Kilgobbin arrived at Kilbeggan, it was nigh 
midnight ; and as young OShea was at that moment a patient 
in the jail infirmary, and sound asleep, it was decided 
between Kearney and his son that they would leave him 
undisturbed till the following morning. 

Late as it was, Kearney was so desirous to know the exact 
narrative of events that he resolved on seeing Mr. Flood at 
once. Though Dick Kearney remonstrated with his father, 
and reminded him that old Tom Flood, as he was called, was 
a bitter Tory, had neither a civil word nor a kind thought for 
his adversaries in politics, Kearney was determined not to be 
turned from his purpose b}^ any personal consideration, and 
being assured by the innkeeper that he was sure to find Mr. 
Flood in his dining-room and over his wine, he set out for 
the snug cottage at the entrance of the town, where the old 
justice of the peace resided. 

Just as he had been told, IMr. Flood was still in the dinner- 
room, and with his guest, Tony Adams, the Rector, seated 
with an array of decanters between them. 

“ Kearney — Kearney! ” cried Flood, as he read the card 
the servant handed him. “Is it the fellow who calls himself 
Lord Kilgobbin, I wonder?” 

“ May be so,” growled Adams, in a deep guttural, for he 
disliked the effort of speech. 


TWO J. IVS. 


399 


“ I don’t know him, nor do I want to know him. He is 
one of your half-and-half Liberals that, to my thinking, are 
worse than the rebels themselves ! W^hat is this here in 
pencil on the back of the card? ‘Mr. K. begs to apologize 
for the hour of his intrusion, and earnestly entreats a few 
minutes from Mr. Flood.’ Show him in, Philip, show him 
in, and bring some fresh glasses.” 

Kearney made his excuses with a tact and politeness which 
spoke of a time when he mixed freely with the world, and 
old Flood was so astonished by the ease and good breeding 
of his visitor that his own manner became at once courteous 
and urbane. 

“Make no apologies about the hour, Mr. Kearney,” said 
he. “ An old bachelor’s house is never very tight in 
discipline. Allow me to introduce Mr. Adams, Mr. Kearney, 
the best preacher in Ireland, and as good a judge of port 
wine as of theology.” 

The responsive grunt of the parson was drowned in the 
pleasant laugh of the others, as Kearney sat down and filled 
his glass. In a very few words he related the reason of his 
visit to the town, and asked Mr. Flood to tell him what he 
knew of the late misadventure. 

“ Sworn information, drawn up by that worthy man Pat 
McEvoy, the greatest rascal in Europe ; and I hope I don’t 
hurt you by saying it, Mr. Kearney. Sworn information 
of a burglarious entry, and an aggravated assault on the 
premises and person of one Peter Gill, another local bless- 
ing. — bad luck to him. The aforesaid — if I spoke of 
him before — Gorman O’Shea, having, suadente cllaholo^ 
smashed down doors and windows, palisadings and palings, 
and broke open cabinets, chests, cupboards, and other con- 
trivances. In a word, he went into another man’s house, 
and when asked what he did there, he threw the proprietor 
out of the window. There ’s the whole of it.” 

“ Where was the house? ” 

“ O’Shea’s Barn.” 

“ But surely O’Shea’s Barn being the residence and prop- 
erty of his aunt, there was no impropriety in his going 
there? ” 

“The informant states that the place was in the tenancy 


400 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


of this said Gill, one of your own people, Mr. Kearney. I 
wish you luck of him.” 

“I disown him. Root and branch; he is a disgrace to 
any side. And where is Miss Betty O’Shea?” 

‘‘ In a convent or a monastery, they say. She has turned 
abbess or monk ; but, upon my conscience, from the little 
1 ’ve seen of her, if a strong will and a plucky heart be the 
qualifications, she might be the Pope ! ” 

And are the young man’s injuries serious, — is he badly 
hurt? for they would not let me see him at the jail.” 

“ Serious, 1 believe they are. He is cut cruelly about the 
face and head, and his body bruised all over. The finest 
peasantry have a taste for kicking with strong brogues on 
them, Mr. Kearney, that cannot be equalled.” 

“ I wish with all my heart they’d kick the English out of 
Ireland ! ” cried Kearney, with a savage energy. 

“Faith! if they go on governing us in the present 
fashion, I do not say I’ll make any great objection. Eh, 
Adams? ” 

“May be sol ” was the slow and very guttural reply, as 
the fat man crossed his hands on his waistcoat. 

“ I’m sick of them all, Whigs and Tories,” said Kearney. 
“ Is not every Irish gentleman sick of them, Mr. Kearney? 
Ain’t you sick of being cheated and cajoled, and ain’t \oe 
sick of being cheated and insulted ? They seek to conciliate 
you by outraging us. Don’t you think we could settle our 
own differences better amongst ourselves? It was Philpot 
Curran said of the fleas in Manchester, that if they ’d all 
pull together, they ’d have pulled him out of bed. Now, Mr. 
Kearney, what if we all took to ‘ pulling together ’ ? ” 

“We cannot get rid of the notion that we ’d be out- 
jockeyed,” said Kearney, slowly. 

“We cried the other, “that we should be out- 

numbered, and that is worse. Eh, Adams? ” 

“ Ay I ” sighed Adams, who did not desire to be appealed 
to by either side. 

“ Now we ’re alone here, and no eavesdropper near us, tell 
me fairly, Kearney, are you better because we are brought 
down in the world ? Are }mu richer, — are you greater, — 
are you happier?” 


TWO J. IVS. 


401 


“ I believe we are, Mr. Flood, and ITl tell you why 1 say 
so.” 

“ I Tl be shot if I hear you, that’s all. PTll your glass. 
That’s old port that John Beresford tasted in the Custom 
House Docks seventy-odd years ago, and you are the only 
AVhig living that ever drank a drop of it ! ” 

“ 1 am proud to be the first exception, and I go so far as 
to believe I shall not be the last ! ” 

'■‘1 ’ll send a few bottles over to that boy in the infirmary. 
It cannot but be good for him,” said Flood. 

“ Take care, for heaven’s sake, if he be threatened with 
inflammation. Do nothing without the doctor’s leave.” 

‘‘ I wonder why the people who are so afraid of inflamma- 
tion are so fond of rebellion,” said he, sarcastically. 

‘‘ Perhaps I could tell you that, too — ” 

“No; do not — do not, I beseech you ; reading the Whig 
Ministers’ speeches has given me such a disgust to all expla- 
nations, I ’d rather concede anything than hear how it could 
be defended ! Apparently Mr. Disraeli is of my mind also, 
for he won’t support Paul Hartigan’s motion.” 

“ What was Hartigan’s motion? ” 

‘‘ For the papers, or the correspondence, or whatever thej" 
called it, that passed between Danesbury and Dan Donogan.” 
“But there was none.” 

Is that all you know of it? They were as thick as two 
thieves. It was ^ Dear Dane,’ and ‘ Dear Dan,’ between 
them. ‘ Stop the shooting. We want a light calendar at 
the summer assizes,’ says one. ‘ You shall have forty 
thousand pounds yearly for a Catholic college, if the House 
will let us.’ ‘ Thank you for nothing for the Catholic col- 
lege,’ says Dan. ‘ We want our own parliament and our 
own militia ; free pardon for political offences.’ What 
would you say to a bill to make landlord-shooting man- 
slaughter, Mr. Kearne}"?” 

“Justifiable homicide, Mr. Bright called it years ago; but 
the judges did n’t see it.” 

“ This Danesbury ‘ muddle,’ for that is the name they give 
it, will be hushed up ; for he has got some Tory connections, 
and the Lords are never hard on one of their ‘ order,’ so I 
hear. Hartigan is to be let have his talk out in the House ; 

26 


402 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


and as he is said to be violent and indiscreet, the Prime 
Minister will only reply to the violence and the indiscretion, 
and he will conclude by saying that the noble \dceroy has 
begged her Majesty to release him of the charge of the 
Irish Government ; and though the Cabinet have urgently 
entreated him to remain and carry out the wdse policy of 
conciliation so happily begun in Ireland, he is rooted in his 
resolve, and he will not stay ; and there will be cheers ; and 
when he adds that Mr. Cecil Walpole, having shown his 
great talents for intrigue, will be sent back to the fitting 
sphere, — his old profession of diplomacy, — there will be 
laughter ; for as the Minister seldom jokes, the House will 
imagine this to be a slip, and then, with every one in good 
humor, — but Paul Hartigan, who will have to withdraw his 
motion, — the right honorable gentleman will sit down, well 
pleased at his afternoon’s work.” 

Kearney could not but laugh at the sketch of a debate 
given with all the mimicry of tone and mock solemnity of 
an old debater ; and the two men now became, by the bond 
of their geniality, like old acquaintances. 

“ Ah, Mr. Kearney, I won’t say we ’d do it better on Col- 
lege Green, but we ’d do it more kindly, more courteously, 
and, above all, we ’d be less hypocritical in our inquiries. I 
believe we try to cheat the devil in Ireland just as much 
as our neighbors. Rut we don’t pretend that we are arch- 
bishops all the time we ’re doing it. There ’s where we 
differ from the English.” 

“ And who is to govern us,” cried Kearney, “ if we have 
no Lord-Lieutenant? ” 

“ The Privy Council, the Lords Justices, or may be the 
Board of Works; who knows? When you are going over to 
Holyhead in the packet, do you ever ask if the man at the 
wheel is decent, or a born idiot, and liable to fits? Not a 
bit of it. You know that there are other people to look to 
this, and you trust, besides, that they ’ll land yon all safe.” 
“That’s true,” said Kearney, and he drained his glass; 
“ and now tell me one thing more. How will it go with 
young O’Shea about this scrimmage, — will it be serious? ” 

“ Curtis, the chief constable, says it will be an ugly affair 
enough. They’ll swear hard, and they’ll try to make out a 


TWO J. IVS. 


403 


title to the land through the action of trespass ; and if, as I 
hear, the young fellow is a scamp and a bad lot — ” 

“Neither one nor the other,” broke in Kearney; “as fine 
a boy and as thorough a gentleman as there is in Ireland.” 
“And a bit of a Fenian, too,” slowly interposed Flood. 
“Not that I know. I ’m not sure that he follows the dis- 
tinctions of party here; he is little acquainted with Ireland.” 
“Ho, ho! a Yankee sympathizer ? ” 

“Not even that; an Austrian soldier, a young lieutenant 
of Lancers over here for his leave.” 

“And why couldn’t he shoot, or course, or kiss the girls, 
or play at football, and not be burning his fingers with the 
new land laws? There ’s plenty of ways to amuse yourself 
in Ireland without throwing a man out of window, — eh, 
Adams ? ” 

And Adams bowed his assent, but did not utter a word. 
“You are not going to open more wine?” remonstrated 
Kearney, eagerly. 

“It’s done. Smell that, Mr. Kearney,” cried Flood, as 
he held out a fresh-drawn cork at the end of the screw. 
“Talk to me of clove-pinks and violets and carnations 
after that? I don’t know whether you have any prayers in 
your Church against being led into temptation.” 

“ Have n’t we ! ” sighed the other. 

“Then all I say is. Heaven help the people at Oporto; 
they ’ll have more to answer for even than most men.” 

It was nigh dawn when they parted; Kearney muttering 
to himself as he sauntered back to the inn, “If port like 
that is the drink of the Tories, they must be good fellows, 
wdth all their prejudices.” 

“I ’ll be shot if I don’t like that rebel,” said Flood, as he 
went to bed. 


CHAPTER LVI. 


BEFORE THE DOOR. 

Though Lord Kilgobbin, when he awoke somewhat late in 
the afternoon, did not exactly complain of headache, he 
was free to admit that his faculties were slightly clouded, 
and that his memory was not to the desired extent retentive 
of all that passed on the preceding night. Indeed, beyond 
the fact — which he reiterated with great energy — that ‘‘old 
Flood, Tory though he was, was a good fellow, an excellent 
fellow, and had a marvellous bin of port wine,” his son 
Dick was totally unable to get any information from him. 
“ Bigot, if you like, or Blue Protestant, and all the rest of 
it; but a fine, hearty old soul, and an Irishman to the 
heart’s core!” That was the sum of information which a 
two hours’ close cross-examination elicited; and Dick was 
sulkily about to leave the room in blank disappointment 
when the old man suddenly amazed him b}^ asking, “And 
do you tell me that you have been lounging about the town 
all the morning and have learned nothing? Were you down 
to the jail? Have you seen O’Shea? What’s his account 
of it? Who began the row? Has he any bones broken? 
Do you know anything at all ? ” cried he, as the blank look 
of the astonished youth seemed to imply utter ignorance as 
well as dismay. 

“First of all,” said Dick, drawing a long breath, “I 
have not seen O’Shea; nobody is admitted to see him. 
His injuries about the head are so severe the doctors are in 
dread of erysipelas.” 

“What if he had? Have not every one of us had the 
erysipelas some time or other; and, barring the itching, 
what ’s the great harm ? ” 


BEFORE THE DOOR. 


405 


“The doctors declare that if it come they will not answer 
for his life.” 

“They know best, and I’m afraid they know why, also. 
Oh dear, oh dear! if there ’s anything the world makes no 
progress in, it ’s the science of medicine. Everybody now 
dies of what we all used to have when I was a boy! Sore 
throats, small-pox, colic, are all fatal since they ’ve found 
out Greek names for them, and with their old vulgar titles 
they killed nobody.” 

“Gorman is certainly in a bad way, and Dr. Rogan says 
it will be some days before he could pronounce him out of 
danger.” 

“Can he be removed? Can we take him back with us to 
Kilgobbin ? ” 

“That is utterly out of the question; he cannot be stirred, 
and requires the most absolute rest and quiet. Besides 
that, there is another difficulty, — I don’t know if they 
would permit us to take him away.” 

' “What! do you mean refuse our bail?” 

“They have got affidavits to show old Gill’s life’s in 
danger; he is in high fever to-day, and raving furiously; 
and if he should die, McEvoy declares that they ’ll be able 
to send bills for manslaughter, at least, before the grand 

“There’s more of it!” cried Kilgobbin, with a long 
whistle. “Is it Rogan swears the fellow is in danger?” 

“No; it ’s Tom Price, the dispensary doctor; and as Miss 
Betty withdrew her subscription last year, they say he swore 
he ’d pay her off for it.” 

“I know Tom, and I ’ll see to that,” said Kearney. “Are 
the affidavits sworn? ” 

“No; they are drawn out. McEvoy is copying them 
now; but they ’ll be ready by three o’clock.” 

“I ’ll have Rogan to swear that the boy must be removed 
at once. We ’ll take him over with us ; and once at Kilgob- 
bin, they ’ll want a regiment of soldiers if they mean to take 
him. It is nigh twelve o’clock, now, is it not?” 

“It is on the stroke of two, sir.” 

“Is it possible? I believe I overslept myself in the 
strange bed. Be alive now, Dick, and take the 2.40 train 


406 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


to town. Call on McKeown, and find out where Miss Betty 
is stopping ; break this business to her gently, — for with 
all that damnable temper she has a fine womanly heart; tell 
her the poor boy was not to blame at all ; that he went over 
to see her, and knew nothing of the place being let out 
or hired; and tell her, besides, that the blackguards that 
beat him were not her own people at all, but villains from 
another barony that old Gill brought over to w'ork on short 
wages. Mind that you say that, or we ’ll have more law^ 
and more trouble, — notices to quit, and the devil knows 
what. I know Miss Betty well, and she ’d not leave a man 
on a townland if they raised a finger against one of her 
name! There, now, you know what to do; go and do 
it! ” 

To hear the systematic and peremptory manner in which 
the old man detailed all his directions, one would have pro- 
nounced him a model of orderly arrangement and rule. 
Having despatched Dick to town, however, he began to 
bethink him of all the matters on which he was desirous to 
learn Miss O’Shea’s mind. Had she really leased the Barn 
to this man Gill; and if so, for what term? And was her 
quarrel with her nephew of so serious a nature that she 
might hesitate as to taking his side here, — at least, till she 
knew he was in the right; and then, was he in the right? 
That was, though the last, the most vital consideration of 
all. 

“I ’d have thought of all these if the bo}^ J^iad not flurried 
me so. These hot-headed fellows have never room in their 
foolish brains for anything like consecutive thought ; they 
can just entertain the one idea, and till they dismiss that 
they cannot admit another. Now, he ’ll come back by the 
next train, and bring me the answer to one of my que- 
ries, if even that?” sighed he, as he went on with his 
dressing. 

“All this blessed business,” muttered he to himself, 
“comes of this blundering interference with the land laws. 
Paddy hears that they have given him some new rights and 
privileges, and no mock modesty of his own will let him 
lose any of them, and so he claims everything. Old expe- 
rience had taught him that with a bold heart and a blunder- 


BEFORE THE DOOR. 


407 


buss be need not pay much rent; but Mr. Gladstone 
— long life to him — had said, ‘ We must do something for 
you.’ Now what could that be? He’d scarcely go so 
far as to give them out Minie rifles or Chassepots, though 
arms of precision, as they call them, would have put many 
a poor fellow out of pain; as Bob Magrath said, when he 
limped into the public-house with a ball in his back, ‘ It ’s 
only a “healing measure; ” don’t make a fuss about it.’ ” 

“Mr. Flood wants to see your honor when you ’re dressed,” 
said the waiter, interrupting his soliloqu3^ 

“Where is he? ” 

“Walking up and down, sir, forenent the door.” 

“Will ye say I’m coming down? I’m just finishing a 
letter to the Lord Lieutenant,” said Kilgobbin, with a sly 
look to the man, who returned the glance with its rival, and 
then left the room. 

“Will you not come in and sit down?” said Kearney, as 
he cordially shook Flood’s hand. 

“I have only five minutes to stay, and with your leave, 
Mr. Kearney, we’ll pass it here;” and taking the other’s 
arm, he proceeded to walk up and down before the door of 
the inn. 

“You know Ireland well, — few men better, I am told, — 
and you have no need, therefore, to be told how the rumored 
dislikes of party, the reported jealousies and rancors of 
this set to that, influence the world here. It will be a fine 
thing, therefore, to show these people here that the Liberal, 
Mr. Kearney, and that bigoted old Tory, Tom Flood, were 
to be seen walking together and in close confab. It will 
show them, at all events, that neither of us wants to make 
party capital out of this scrimmage, and that he who wants 
to affront one of us cannot, on that ground at least, count 
upon the other. Just look at the crowd that is watching us 
already! There ’s a fellow neglecting the sale of his pig to 
stare at us, and tliat young woman has stopped gartering 
her stocking for the last two minutes in sheer curiosity 
about us.” 

Kearney laughed heartily as he nodded assent. 

“You follow me, don’t you? ” asked Flood. “Well, then, 
grant me the favor I ’m about to ask, and it will show me 


408 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


that 3^011 see all these things as I do. This row ina^^ turn 
out more seriously than we thought for. That scoundrel 
Gill is in a high fever to-day; 1 would not say that just out 
of spite the fellow would not die. Who knows if it may 
not become a great case at the assizes ; and if so, Kearney, 
let us have public opinion with us. There are scores of 
men who will wait to hear what you and I sa^^ of this 
business. There are hundreds more who will expect us to 
disagree. Let us prove to them that this is no feud between 
Orange and Green; this is nothing of dispute between Whig 
and Tory, or Protestant and Papist, but a free fight where, 
more shame to them, fifty fell upon one. Now what }^ou 
must grant me is leave to send this bo^' back to Kilgobbin 
in my own carriage and with my own liveries. There is 
not a peasant cutting turf on the bog will not reason out his 
own conclusions when he sees it. Don’t refuse me, for I 
have set my heart on it.” 

“I’m not thinking of refusing. I was only wondering to 
myself wLat my daughter Kitty will say when she sees me 
sitting behind the blue and orange liveries.” 

“You may send me back with the green flag over me the 
next day I dine with jmu,” cried Flood; and the compact 
was ratified. 

“It is more than half-past already",” said Flood. “We 
are to have a full bench at three; so l)e ready to give ^mur 
bail, and I ’ll have the carriage at the corner of the street, 
and you shall set off with the bo}^ at once.” 

“I must say,” said Kearney, “whatever be your Tory 
faults, lukewarmness is not one of them! You stand to me 
like an old friend in all this trouble.” 

“Maybe it ’s time to begin to forget old grudges. Kear- 
ney^, I believe in my heart neither of us is as bad as the 
other thinks him. Are \^ou aware that the^^ are getting 
affidavits to refuse the bail ? ” 

“I know it all; but 1 have sent a man to McEvo}" about 
a case that will take all his morning; and he ’ll be too late 
with his affidavits.” 

“By the time he is ready }mu and ^^our charge will be 
snug in Kilgobbin ; and another thing, Kearne^^, — for I 
have thought of the whole matter, — you ’ll take out with 


BEFORE THE DOOR. 


409 


you that little vermin Price, the doctor, and treat him well. 
He ’ll be as indiscreet as you wish; and be sure to give him 
the opportunity. There, now, give me your most affec- 
tionate grasp of the hand, for there ’s an attentive public 
watching us.” 


CHAPTER LVII. 


A DOCTOR. 

Young O’Shea made the journey from Kilbeggan to Kil- 
gobbiii Castle in total unconsciousness. The symptoms had 
now taken the form which doctors call concussion; and 
though to a first brief question he was able to reply reason- 
ably and well, the effort seemed so exhausting that to all 
subsequent queries he appeared utterly indifferent; nor did 
he even by look acknowledge that he heard them. 

Perfect and unbroken quiet was enjoined as his best, if 
not his only, remedy ; and Kate gave up her own room for 
the sick man, as that most remote from all possible disturb- 
ance, and away from all the bustle of the house. The 
doctors consulted on his case in the fashion that a country 
physician of eminence condescends to consult with a small 
local practitioner. Dr. Rogan pronounced his opinion, pro- 
phetically declared the patient in danger, and prescribed his 
remedies; while Price, agreeing with everything, and even 
slavishly abject in his manner of concurrence, went about 
amongst the underlings of the household, saying, “There ’s 
two fractures of the frontal bone. It ’s trepanned he ought 
to be; and when there’s an inquest on the body. I’ll 
declare I said so.” 

Though nearly all the care of providing for the sick man’s 
nursing fell to Kate Kearney, she fulfilled the duty without 
attracting any notice whatever, or appearing to feel as if 
any extra demand were made upon her time or her atten- 
tion; so much so, that a careless observer might have 
thought her far more interested in providing for the recep- 
tion of the aunt than in cares for the nephew. 

Dick Kearney had written to say that Miss Betty was so 
overwhelmed with affliction at young Gorman’s mishap 


A DOCTOR. 


411 


that she had taken to bed, and could not be expected to be 
able to travel for several days. She insisted, however, on 
two telegrams daily to report on the boy’s case, and asked 
which of the great Dublin celebrities of physic should be 
sent down to see him. 

“They ’re all alike to me,” said Kilgobbin; “but if I Avas 
to choose, I think I ’d say Dr. Chute.” 

This was so far unlucky, since Dr. Chute had then been 
dead about forty years; scarcely a junior of the profession 
having so much as heard his name. 

“We really want no one,” said Rogan. “AVe are doing 
most favorably in every respect. If one of the young 
ladies would sit and read to him, but not converse, it would 
be a service. He made the request himself this morning, 
and I promised to repeat it.” 

A telegram, hoAvever, announced that Sir St. Xavier 
Brennan would arrive the same evening; and as Sir X. 
was physician-in-chief to the nuns of the Bleeding Heart, 
there could be little doubt whose orthodoxy had chosen him. 

He came at nightfall, — a fat, comely-looking, somewhat 
unctuous gentleman, with excellent teeth and snoAv-white 
hands, symmetrical and dimpled like a woman’s. He saw 
the patient, questioned him slightly, and diAuned, without 
waiting for it, what the ansAver should be ; he was delighted 
with Rogan, pleased with Price; but he grew actually 
enthusiastic over those charming nurses, Nina and Kate. 

“With such sisters of charity to tend me, I ’d consent to 
])ass my life as an iiwalid,” cried he. 

Indeed, to listen to him, it would seem that, whether from 
the salubrity of the air, the peaceful quietude of the spot, 
the Avatchful kindness and attention of the surrounders, or 
a certain general air, — an actual atmosphere of benevolence 
and contentment around, — there wms no pleasure of life 
could equal the delight of being laid up at Kilgobbin. 

“I ha\e a message for you from my old friend Miss 
O’Shea,” said he to Kate the first moment he had the oppor- 
tunity of speaking with her alone. It is not necessary to 
tell you that I neither know, nor desire to know, its import. 
Her words were these, — ‘ Tell my godchild to forgive me if 
she still has any memory for some very rude words I once 


412 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


spoke. Tell her that I have been sorely punished for them 
since, and that till I know I have her pardon I have no 
courage to cross her doors. ’ This was iny message, and I 
was to bring back your answer.” 

“Tell her,” cried Kate, warmly, ‘‘I have no place in my 
memory but for the kindnesses she has bestowed on me, and 
that I ask no better boon from fortune than to be allowed to 
love her, and to be worthy of her love.” 

“I will repeat every word you have told me; and I am 
proud to be bearer of such a s])eech. May I presume, upon 
the casual confidence I have thus acquired, to add one word 
for myself; and it is as the doctor I would speak.” 

“Speak freely. What is it?” 

“It is this, then: you young ladies keep your watches in 
turn in the sick-room. The patient is unfit for much excite- 
ment, and, as I dare not take the liberty of imposing a line 
of conduct on Mademoiselle Kostalergi, I have resolved to 
run the hazard with ijou ! Let hei's be the task of entertain- 
ing him; let her be the reader — and he loves being read 
to — and the talker, and the narrator of whatever o-oes on. 
To you be the part of quiet watchfulness and care, to bathe 
the heated brow or the burning hand, to hold the cold cup 
to the parched lips, to adjust the pillow, to temper the light 
and renew the air of the sick-room; but to speak seldom, if 
at all. Do you understand me? ” 

“Perfectly; and you are wise and acute in your distribu- 
tion of labor, — each of us has her fitting station.” 

“I dared not have said this much to her; my doctor’s 
instinct told me I might be frank with ?/c?/.” 

“You are safe in speaking to me,” said she, calmly. 
“Perhaps I ought to say that I give these suggestions 
without any concert with my patient. I have not only 
abstained from consulting, but — ” 

“Forgive my interrupting 3^011, Sir X. It was quite 
unnecessary to tell me this.” 

“You are not displeased with me, dear lady? ” said he, in 
his softest of accents. 

“No; but do not say anything which might make me 
so.” 

The doctor bowed reverentially, crossed his white hands 


A DOCTOR. 


413 


on his waistcoat, and looked like a saint ready for mar- 
tyrdom. 

Kate frankly held out her hand in token of perfect cor- 
diality, and her honest smile suited the action well. 

“Tell Miss Betty that our sick charge shall not be neg- 
lected, but that we want her here herself to help us.” 

“1 shall report your message word for word,” said he, as 
he withdrew. 

As the doctor drove back to Dublin, he went over a variety 
of things in his thoughts. There were serious disturbances 
in the provinces: those ugly outrages which forerun long- 
winter nights, and make the last days of October dreary and 
sad-colored. Disorder and lawlessness were abroad; and 
that want of something remedial to be done, which, like the 
thirst in fever, is fostered and fed by partial indulgence. 
Then he had some puzzling cases in hospital, and one or two 
in private practice, which harassed him; for some had 
reached that critical stage where a false move would be 
fatal, and it was far from clear which path should be 
taken. Then there was that matter of Miss O’Shea herself, 
who, if her nephew were to die, would most likely endow 
that hospital in connection with the Bleeding Heart, and of 
which he Avas himself the founder; and that this fate was 
by no means improbable. Sir X. persuaded himself, as he 
counted over all the different stages of peril that stood be- 
tween him and convalescence. “We have now the concus- 
sion, with reasonable prospect of meningitis; then there may 
come on erysipelas from the scalp wounds, and high fever, 
with all its dangers ; next there may be a low typhoid state, 
with high nervous excitement; and through all these the 
passing risks of the wrong food or drink, the imprudent 
revelations, or the mistaken stimulants. Heigho! ” said he, 
at last; ‘Dve come through storm and shipwreck, forlorn 
hopes, and burning villages, and we succumb to ten drops 
too much of a dark broAvn liquor, or the improvident rash- 
ness that reads out a note to us incautiously! 

“Those young ladies thought to mystify me,” said he 
aloud, after a long revery. “I was not to know which of 
them was in love with the sick boy. I could make nothing 
of the Greek, I own; for, except a half-stealthy regard for 


414 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


myself, she confessed to nothing, and the other was nearly 
as inscrutable. It was only the little warmth at last that 
betrayed her. I hurt her pride ; and as she winced, I said, 

‘ There ’s the sore spot; there ’s mischief there! ’ How the 
people grope their way through life who have never studied 
physic nor learned physiology is a puzzle to me ! With all 
its aid and guidance I find humanity quite hard enough to 
understand every day I live.” 

Even in his few hours’ visit, — in which he remarked 
everything, from the dress of the man who waited at dinner, 
to the sherry decanter with the smashed stopper, the weak 
“Gladstone” that did duty as claret, and the cotton lace 
which Nina sported as “point d’Alencon,” and numberless 
other shifts, such as people make who like to play false 
money with Fortune, — all these he saw, and he saw that a ✓ 
certain jealous rivalry existed between the two girls; but 
whether either of them, or both, cared for young O’Shea, he 
could not declare; and, strange as it may seem, his inability 
to determine this weighed upon him with all the sense of a 
defeat. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


IN TURKEY. 

Leaving the sick man to the tender care of those ladies 
whose division of labor we have just hinted at, we turn 
to other interests, and to one of our characters, who, 
though to all seeming neglected, has not lapsed from our 
memory. 

Joe Atlee had been despatched on a very confidential 
mission by Lord Danesbury. Not only was he to repossess 
himself of certain papers he had never heard of, from a 
man he had never seen, but he was also to impress this 
unknown individual with the immense sense of fidelity to 
another who no longer had any power to reward him ; and 
besides this, to persuade him, being a Greek, that the favor 
of a great ambassador of England was better than roubles 
of gold and vases of malachite. 

Modern history has shown us what a great aid to success 
in life is the contribution of a “light heart,” and Joe Atlee 
certainly brought this element of victory along with him on 
his journey. 

His instructions were assuredly of the roughest. To im- 
press Lord Danesbury favorably on the score of his acute- 
ness he must not press for details, seek for explanations; 
and, above all, he must ask no questions. In fact, to 
accomplish that victory which he ambitioned for his clever- 
ness, and on which his Excellency should say, “Atlee saw 
it at once, Atlee caught the whole thing at a glance,” — Joe 
must be satisfied with the least definite directions that ever 
were issued, and the most confused statement of duties and 
difficulties that ever puzzled a human intelligence. Indeed, 
as he himself summed up his instructions in his own room. 


416 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


they went no further than this: That there was a Greek, 
who, with a number of other names, was occasionally called 
Speridionides, — a great scoundrel, and with every good 
reason for not being come at, — who was to be found some- 
where in Stamboul, — probably at the bazaar at nightfall. 
He was to be bullied or bribed or wheedled or menaced 
to give up some letters which Lord Danesbury had once 
written to him, and to pledge himself to complete secrecy 
as to their contents ever after. From this Greek, whose 
perfect confidence Atlee was to obtain, he was to learn 
whether Kulbash Pasha, Lord Danesbury ’s sw'orn friend 
and ally, was not lapsing from his English alliance and 
inclining towmrds Russian connections. To Kulbash him- 
self Atlee had letters, accrediting him as the trusted and 
confidential agent of Lord Danesbury ; and wdth the Pasha 
Joe w’as instructed to treat wdth an air and bearing of 
unlimited trustfulness. He wms also to mention that his 
Excellency was eager to be back at his old post as ambas- 
sador, that he loved the country, the climate, his old col- 
leagues in the Sultan’s service, and all the interests and 
questions that made up their political life. 

Last of all, Atlee was to ascertain every point on which 
any successor to Lord Danesbury was likely to be mistaken, 
and how^ a misconception might be ingeniously widened into 
a grave blunder ; and by what means such incidents should 
be properly commented on by the local papers, and unfavor- 
able comparisons drawm between the author of these meas- 
ures and “ the great and enlightened statesman ” who had 
so lately left them. 

In a wmrd, Atlee saw^ that he w^as to personate the char- 
acter of a most unsuspecting, confiding young gentleman, 
who possessed a certain natural aptitude for affairs of impor- 
tance, and that amount of discretion such as suited him to 
be employed confidentially; and to perform this part he 
addressed himself. 

The Pasha liked him so much that he invited him to be 
his guest while he remained at Constantinople, and soon 
satisfied that he was a guileless youth fresh to the world 
and its ways, he talked very freely before him, and affect- 
ing to discuss mere possibilities, actually sketched events 


IN TURKEY. 


417 


and consequences which Atlee shrewdly guessed to be all 
within the range of casualties. 

Lord Danesbury’s post at Constantinople had not been filled 
up, except by the appointment of a Charge-d’ Affaires ; it being- 
one of the approved modes of snubbing a government to ac- 
credit a person of inferior rank to its court. Lord Danes- 
bury detested this man with a hate that only official life 
comprehends ; the mingled rancor, jealousy, and malice sug- 
gested by a successor being a combination only known to 
men who serve their country. 

“ Find out what Brumsey is doing ; he is said to be doing 
wrong. He knows nothing of Turkey. Learn his blunders, 
and let me know them.” 

This was the easiest of all Atlee’s missions, for Brumsey 
was the weakest and most transparent of all imbecile Whigs. 
A junior diplomatist of small faculties and great ambitions, 
he wanted to do something, not being clear as to what, which 
should startle his chiefs, and make “the Office ” exclaim : 
“ See what Sam Brumsey has been doing ! Has n’t Brumsey 
hit the nail on the head ! Brumsey ’s last despatch is the 

finest state paper since the days of Canning ! ” Now no one 
knew the short range of this man’s intellectual tether better 
than Lord Danesbury, — since Brumsey had been his own 
private secretary once, and the two men hated each other as 
only a haughty superior and a craven dependant know how 
to hate. 

The old ambassador was right. Russian craft had dug 
many a pitfall for the English diplomatist, and Brumsey had 
fallen into every one of them. Acting on secret information, 
— all ingeniously prepared to entrap him, — Brumsey had 
discovered a secret demand made by Russia to enable one of 
the Imperial family to make the tour of the Black Sea with 
a ship-of-war. Though it might be matter of controversy 
whether Turkey herself could, without the assent of the 
other Powers to the Treaty of Paris, give her permission, 
Brumsey was too elated by his discovery to hesitate about 
this, but at once communicated to the Grand Vizier a 
formal declaration of the displeasure with which England 
w'ould witness such an infraction of a solemn engage- 
ment. 


27 


418 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


As no such project had ever been entertained, no such 
demand ever made, Kulbash Pasha not only laughed heartily 
at the mock thunder of the Englishman, but at the energy 
with which a small official always opens fire, and in the jocu- 
larity of his Turkish nature, — for they are jocular, these 
children of the Koran, — he told the whole incident to 
Atlee. 

“Your old master, Mr. Atlee,” said he, “would scarcely 
have read us so sharp a lesson as that; but,” he added, “ we 
always hear stronger language from the man who couldn’t 
station a gunboat at Pera than from the ambassador who 
could call up the Mediterranean squadron from Malta.” 

If Atlee’s first letter to Lord Danesbury admitted of a 
certain disappointment as regarded Speridionides, it made 
ample compensation by the keen sketch it conveyed of 
how matters stood at the Porte, the uncertain fate of Kul- 
bash Pasha’s policy, and the scarcely credible blunder of 
Brumsey. 

To tell the English ambassador how much he was regretted 
and how mucb needed, how the partisans of England felt 
themselves deserted and abandoned by his withdrawal, and 
how gravely the best interests of Turkey itself were compro- 
mised for want of that statesmanlike intelligence that had up 
to this guided the counsels of the Divan, — all these formed 
only a part of Atlee’s task ; for he wrote letters and leaders, 
in this sense, to all the great journals of London, Paris, and 
Vienna : so that when the “ Times ” and the “ Post” asked the 
English people whether they were satisfied that the benefit 
of the Crimean war should be frittered away by an incompe- 
tent youth in the position of a man of high ability, the 
“Debats commented on the want of support France suf- 
fered at the Porte by the inferior agency of England, and 
the “ Neue Presse ” of Vienna more openly declared that if 
England had determined to annex Turkey and govern it 
as a Crown colony, it would have been at least courtesy to 
have informed her co-signatories of the fact. 

At the same time an Irish paper in the national interest 
quietly desired to be informed how was it that the man who 
made such a mull of Ireland could be so much needed in 
I 111 key, aided by a well-known fellow-citizen, more cele- 


IN TURKEY. 


419 


brated for smashing lamps and wringing off knockers than 
for administering the rights of a colony ; and by which of 
his services, ballad-writing or beating the police, he had 
gained the favor of the present Cabinet. “ In fact,” con- 
cluded the writer, “ if we hear more of this appointment, 
we promise our readers some biographical memoirs of the 
respected individual, which may serve to show the rising 
youth of Ireland by what gifts success in life is most surely 
achieved, as well as what peculiar accomplishments find 
most merit with the grave-minded men who rule us.” 

A Cork paper announced on the same day, amongst the 
promotions, that Joseph Atlee had been made C. B., and 
mildly inquired if the honor were bestowed for that paper 
on Ireland in the last “Quarterly,” and dryly wound up by 
saying, “We are not selfish, whatever people may say of 
us. Our friends on the Bosphorus shall have the noble lord 
cheap ! Let his Excellency only assure us that he will return 
with his whole staff, and not leaye us Mr. Cecil Walpole, or 
any other like incapacity, behind him, as a director of the 
Poor Law Board, or inspector-general of jails, or deputy- 
assistant-secretary anywhere, and we assent freely to the 
change that sends this man to the East and leaves us here to 
flounder on with such aids to our mistakes as a Liberal 
Government can safely afford to spare us.” 

A paragraph in another part of the same paper, which 
asked if the Joseph Atlee who, it was rumored, was to go 
out as Governor to Labuan, could be this man, had, it is 
needless to say, been written by himself. 

The “ Levant Herald” contented itself with an authorized 
contradiction to the report that Sir Joseph Atlee — the Sir 
was an ingenious blunder — had conformed to Islamism, and 
was in treaty for the palace of Tashkir Bey at Therapia. 

AVith a neatness and tact all his own, Atlee narrated 
Brumsey’s blunder in a tone so simple and almost deferential 
that Lord Danesbury could show the letter to any of his 
colleagues. The whole spirit of the document was regret 
that a very well-intentioned gentleman of good connections 
and irreproachable morals should be an ass ! Not that he 
employed the insufferable designation. 

The Cabinet at home were on thorns lest the press — the 


420 


LORD KILGOBBIK 


vile Tory organs — should get wind of the case, and cap the 
blundering government of Ireland with the almost equally 
gross mistake in diplomacy. 

“We shall have the ‘ Standard’ at us,” said the Premier. 

“Far worse,” replied the Foreign Secretary. “I shall 
have Brunow here in a white passion to demand an apology 
and the recall of our man at Constantinople.” 

To accuse a well-known housebreaker of a burglary that 
he had not committed, nor had any immediate thought of 
committing, is the very luckiest stroke of fortune that could 
befall him. He comes out not alone innocent, but injured. 
The persecutions b}^ which bad men have assailed him for 
years have at last their illustration, and the calumniated 
saint walks forth into the world, his head high and his port 
erect, even though a crowbar should peep out from his coat- 
pocket, and the jingle of false keys go with him as he 
went. 

Far too astute to make the scandal public by the news- 
papers, Atlee only hinted to his chief the danger that might 
ensue if the secret leaked out. He well knew that a press 
scandal is a nine-day fever, but a menaced publicity is a 
chronic malady that may go on for years. 

The last lines of his letter were : “I have made a curious 
and interesting acquaintance, — a certain Stephanotis Bey, 
governor of Scutari in Albania, a very venerable old fellow, 
who was never at Constantinople till now. The Pasha tells 
me in confidence that he is enormously wealthy. His for- 
tune was made by brigandage in Greece, from which he re- 
tired a few years ago, shocked by the sudden death of his 
brother, who was decapitated at Corinth with five others. 
The Bey is a nice, gentle-mannered, simple-hearted old man, 
kind to the poor, and eminently hospitable. He has invited 
me down to Prevesa for the pig-shooting. If I have your 
permission to accept the invitation, I shall make a rapid visit 
to Athens, and make one more effort to discover Speridioni- 
des. Might I ask the favor of an answer by telegraph? 
So many documents and archives were stolen here at the 
time of the fire of the Embassy, that, by a timely measure 
of discredit, we can impair the value of all papers whatever, 
and I have already a mass of false despatches, notes, and 


IN TURKEY* 


421 


telegrams ready for publication, and subsequent denial, if 
you advise it. In one of these I have imitated Walpole’s 
style so well that I scarcely think he will read it without 
misgivings. With so much ‘ bad bank paper’ in circulation, 
Speridionides is not likely to set a high price on his own 
scrip.’ ” 


CHAPTER LIX. 


A LETTER-BAG. 

Lord Danesbury read Atlee’s letter with an enjoyment not 
unlike the feeling an old sportsman experiences in discov- 
ering that his cover hack — an animal not worth twenty 
pounds — was a capital fencer ; that a beast only destined 
to the commonest of uses should actually have qualities that 
recalled the steeple-chaser, — that the scrubby little creature 
with the thin neck and the shabby quarters should have a 
turn of speed and a “big jump” in him, was something 
scarcely credible and highly interesting. 

Now political life has its handicaps like the turf, and 
that old jockey of many Cabinets began seriously to think 
whether he might not lay a little money on that dark horse 
Joe Atlee, and make something out of him before he was 
better known in “ the ring.” 

He was smarting, besides, under the annoyances of that 
half-clever fellow Walpole, when Atlee's letter reached him; 
and though the unlucky Cecil had taken ill and kept his 
room ever since his arrival, his Excellency had never for- 
given him, nor by a word or sign showed any disposition 
to restore him to favor. 

That he was himself overwhelmed by a correspondence, 
and left to deal with it almost alone, scarcely contributed 
to reconcile him to a youth more smarting, as he deemed 
it, under a recent defeat than really ill ; and he pointed to 
the mass of papers which now littered his breakfast-table, 
and querulously asked his niece if that brilliant young gen- 
tleman upstairs could be induced to postpone his sorrows 
and copy a despatch. 

“If it be not something very difficult or requiring very 
uncommon care, perhaps I could do it myself.” 


A LETTER-BAG. 


423 


“So you could, Maude, but I want you too, — I shall 
want you to copy out parts of Atlee’s last letter, which 
I wish to place before the Foreign Office Secretary. He 
ought to see what his protege Bruinsey is making of it. 
These are the idiots who get us into foreign wars, or those 
apologetic movements in diplomacy which are as bad as 
lost battles. What a contrast to Atlee — a rare clever 
dog, Atlee — and so awake, not only to one, but to every 
contingency of a case. 1 like that fellow — 1 like a fellow 
that stops all the earths! Your half-clever ones never do 
that ; they only do enough to prolong the race ; they don’t 
win it. That bright relative ok ours — Cecil — is one of 
those. Give Atlee Walpole’s chances, and where would 
he be?” 

A very faint color tinged her cheek as she listened, but 
did not speak. 

“That’s the real way to put it,” continued he, more 
warmly. “ Say to Atlee, ‘ Y"ou shall enter public life with- 
out any pressing need to take office for a livelihood ; you 
shall have friends able to push you with one party, and 
relations and connections with the opposition, to save you 
from unnecessary cavil or question ; you shall be well in- 
troduced socially, and have a seat in the House before — ’ 
What’s his age? five-and-twenty ? ” 

“ I should sa}^ about three-and-tweuty, my Lord; but it 
is a mere guess.” 

“ Three-and-twenty is he? I suspect you are right, — he 
can’t be more. But what a deal the fellow has crammed 
for that time, — plenty of rubbish, no doubt : old drama- 
tists and such like : but he is well up in his treaties ; and 
there ’s not a speaker of eminence in the House that he 
cannot make contradict himself out of Hansard.” 

“Has he any fortune?” sighed she, so lazily that it 
scarcely sounded as a question. 

“I suppose not.” 

“Nor any family?” 

“ Brothers and sisters he may have, — indeed, he is sure 
to have ; but if you mean connections, — belonging to per- 
sons of admitted station, — of course he has not. The 
name alone might show it.” 


424 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Another little sigh^ fainter than before, followed, and all 
was still. 

Five years hence, if even so much, the plebeian name and 
the unknown stock will be in his favor ; but we have to 
wade through a few dreary measures before that. I wdsh he 
was in the House, — he ought to be in the House.” 

“ Is there a vacancy? ” said she, lazily. 

“ Two. There is Cradford, and there is that Scotch place, 

— the something-Burg, which, of course, one of their own 
people will insist on.” 

“Couldn’t he have Cradford?” asked she, with a very 
slight animation. 

“ He might — at least if Brand knew him, he ’d see he was 
the man they wanted. I almost think I ’ll write a line to 
Brand, and send him some extracts of the last letter. I will, 

— here goes.” 

“ If you ’ll tell me — ” 

“ Dear B., — Read the enclosed, and say have you anybody better 
• than the writer for your ancient borough of Cradford ? The fellow 
can talk, and I am sure he can speak as well as he writes. He is 
well up in all Irish press iniquities. Better than all, he has neither 
prejudices nor principles, nor, as I believe, a five-pound note in the 
world. He is now in Greece, but I ’ll have him over by telegraph 
if you give me encouragement. 

“Tell Tycross at F. O. to send Walpole to Guatemala, and order 
him to his post at once. G. will have told you that I shall not go 
back to Ireland. The blunder of my ever seeing it was the black- 
est in the life of yours, 

“ Danesbury.” 

The first letter his Lordship opened gave him very little 
time or inclination to bestow more thought on Atlee. It was 
from the head of the Cabinet, and in the coldest tone imagi- 
nable. The writer directed his attention to what had occurred 
in the House the night before, and how impossible it was for 
any Government to depend on colleagues whose administra- 
tion had been so palpably blundering and unwise. 

“Conciliation can only succeed by the good faith it inspires. 
Once that it leaks out you are more eager to achieve a gain than 
confer a benefit, you cease to conciliate, and you only cajole. Xow, 


A LETTER-BAG. 


425 


your Lordship might have apprehended that, in this especial game, 
the Popish priest is your master and mine — not to add that he gives 
an undivided attention to a subject which we have to treat as one 
amongst many, and with the relations and bearings which attach it 
to other questions of state. 

“That you cannot, with advantage to the Crown, or, indeed, to 
your own dignity, continue to hold your present office, is clear 
enough ; and the only question now is in what way, consistent with 
the safety of the Administration, and respect for your Lordship’s 
high character, the relinquishment had best be made. The debate 
has been, on Gregory’s motion, adjourned. It will be continued on 
Tuesday, and my colleagues opine that if your resignation was in 
their hands before that day, certain leaders of the Opposition would 
consent to withdraw their motion. I am not wholly agreed with 
the other members of the Cabinet on this point ; but, without em- 
barrassing you by the reasons which sway my judgment, I Avill 
simply place the matter before you for your own consideration, per- 
fectly assured, as I am, that your decision will be come to only 
on consideration of what you deem best for the interests of the 
country. 

“My colleague at the Foreign Office will write to-day or to-morrow 
with reference to your former post, and I only allude to it now to 
say the unmixed satisfaction it would give the Cabinet to find that 
the greatest interests of Eastern Europe were once more in the keep- 
ing of the ablest diplomatist of the age, and one of the most far- 
sighted of modern statesmen. 

“ A motion for the abolition of the Irish viceroyalty is now on the 
notice paper, and it will be matter for consideration whether we 
may not make it an open question in the Cabinet. Perhaps your 
Lordship would favor me with such opinions on the sulqect as your 
experiences suggest. 

“ The extra session has wearied out every one, and we can with 
difficulty make a house. Yours sincerely, 

“ G. Annivey.” 

The next he opened was briefer. It ran thus : — 

“ Dear Danesbury, — You must go back at once to Turkey. 
That inscrutable idiot Brumsey has discovered another mare’s nest, 
and we are lucky if Gortchakoff does not call upon us for public 
apology. Brunow is outrageous, and demands B.’s recall. I sent 
off the despatch while he was with me. Leflo Pasha is very ill, they 
say dying, so that you must liaste back to your old friend (query : 
which is he?) Kulbash, if it be not too late, as Apponyi thinks. 

“ Yours, Cr. 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 



“ P. S. — Take none of your Irish suite with you to the East. 
The papers are sure to note the names, and attack you if you should. 
They shall be cared for somehow, if there be any who interest 
you. 

“ You have seen that the House was not over civil to you on 
Saturday night, though A, thinks you got off well.” 

“ Resign ! ” cried he, aloud, as he dashed the letter on the 
table. “ I think I would resign ! If they asked what would 
tempt me to go back there, 1 should be sorely puzzled to 
name it. No ; not the blue ribbon itself would induce me to 
face that chaos once more. As to the hint about my Irish 
staff, it was quite unnecessary. Not very likely, Maude, we 
should take Walpole to hnish in the Bosphorus what he has 
begun on the Liffey.” 

tie turned hastily to the “Times,” and threw his eyes 
over the summary of the debate. It was acrimonious and 
sneery. The Opposition leaders, with accustomed smooth- 
ness, had made it appear that the Viceroy’s Eastern expe- 
rience had misled him, and that he thought “Tipperary was 
a Pashalick ! ” Imbued with notions of wholesale measures 
of government, so applicable to Turkey, it was easy to see 
how the errors had affected his Irish policy. “ There was,” 
said the speaker, “ somebody to be conciliated in Ireland, 
and some one to be hanged ; and what more natural than that 
he should forget which, or that he should make the mistake 
of keeping all the flattery for the rebel, and the rope for the 
priest.” The neatness of the illustration took with the 
House, and the speaker was interrupted by “ much laughter.” 
And then he went on to say that, “ as with those well-known 
ointments or medicines whose specific virtues lay in the enor- 
mous costliness of some of the constituents, so it must give 
unspeakable value to the efficacy of those healing measures 
for Ireland, to know that the whole British Constitution was 
boiled down to make one of them ; and everv ri«;ht and 
liberty brayed in the mortar to furnish even one dose of this 
precious elixir.” And then there was “ laughter ” again. 

“ He ought to be more merciful to charlatans. Dogs do 
not eat dogs,” muttered his Lordship to himself, and then 
asked his niece to send Walpole to him. 

It was some time before Walpole appeared, and when he 


A LETTER-BAG. 


427 


did it was with such a wasted look and careworn aspect as 
might have pleaded in his favor. 

“ Maude told me }^ou wished to see me, my Lord,” said he, 
half diffidently. 

“Did I? eh? Did I say so? I forget all about it. 
What could it be? Let us see. Was it this stupid row 
they were making in the House? Have you read the 
debate? ” 

“ No, my Lord ; not looked at a paper.” 

“Of course not; you have been too ill, too weak. Have 
you seen a doctor?” 

“ I don’t care to see a doctor ; they all say the same thing. 
I only need rest and quiet.” 

“Only that! Why, they are the two things nobody can 
get. Power cannot have them, nor money buy them. The 
retired tradesman, — I beg his pardon, the cheesemonger, — 
he is always a cheesemonger now who represents vulgarity 
and bank stock, — he may have his rest and quiet ; but a 
Minister must not dream of such a luxury, nor any one who 
serves a Minister. Where ’s the quiet to come from, I ask 
you, after such a tirade of abuse as that? ” And he pointed 
to the “ Times.” “ There ’s ‘ Punch,’ too, with a picture of 
me measuring out ‘ Danesbury’s drops to cure loyalty.’ 
That slim youth handing the spoon is meant for you^ 
Walpole.” 

“Perhaps so, my Lord,” said he, coldly. 

“They haven’t given you too much leg, Cecil,” said the 
other, laughing; but Cecil scarcely relished the joke. 

“ I say, Piccadilly is scarcely the place for a man after 
that; — 1 mean, of course, for a while,” continued he. 
“ These things are not eternal; they have their day. They 
had me last week travelling in Ireland on a camel ; and I 
was made to say, ‘ That the air of the desert always did me 
good! ’ Poor fun, was it not?” 

“ Very poor fun, indeed ! ” 

“And you were the boy preparing my chibouque; and, I 
must say, devilish like.” 

“ I did not see it, my Lord.” 

“That’s the best way. Don’t look at the caricatures; 
don’t read the ‘ Saturday Review ; ’ never know there is any- 


428 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


thing wrong with you ; nor, if you can, that anything dis- 
agrees with you.” 

“ I should like the last delusion best of all,” said he. 

“Who would not?” cried the old Lord. “The way I 
used to eat potted prawns at Eton, and peach jam after 
them, and iced guavas, and never felt better ! And now 
everything gives acidity.” 

“Just because our fathers and grandfathers would have 
those potted prawns you spoke of.” 

“No, no; you are all wrong. It’s the new race, — it’s 
the new generation. They don’t bear reverses. Whenever 
the world goes wrong with them, they talk as they feel, they 
lose appetite, and they fall down in a state like your — a — 
Walpole — like your own ! ” 

“ Well, my Lord, I don’t think I could be called captious 
for saying that the world has not gone over well with 
me.” 

• “Ah — hum. You mean — no matter — I suppose the 
luckiest hand is not all trumps ! The thing is to score the 
trick ; that ’s the point, Walpole, to score the trick ! ” 

“Up to this, T have not been so fortunate.” 

“Well, who knows what’s coming! I have just asked 
the Foreign Office people to give you Guatemala; not a bad 
thing, as times go.” 

“ Why, my Lord, it’s banishment and barbarism together. 
The pay is miserable I It is far away, and it is not Pall 
Mall or the Rue Rivoli.” 

“No, not that. There is twelve hundred for salary, and 
something for a house, and something more for a secretary 
that you don’t keep, and an office that you need not have. 
In fact, it makes more than two thousand ; and for a single 
man in a place where he cannot be extravagant, it will 
suffice.” 

“Yes, my Lord; but I w^as presumptuous enough to 
imagine a condition in which I should not be a single man, 
and I speculated on the possibility that another might 
venture to share even poverty as my companion.” 

“ A woman would n’t go there, — at least, she ought not. 
It’s all bush life, or something like it. Why should a 
woman bear that, or a man ask her to do so?” 


A LETTER-BAG. 


429 


“ You seem to forget, my Lord, that affections may be 
engaged, and pledges interchanged.” 

“ Get a bill of indemnity, therefore, to release you ; better 
that than wait for yellow fever to do it.” 

“ I confess that your Lordship’s words give me great 
discouragement ; and if I could possibly believe that Lady 
Maude was of your mind — ” 

“Maude! Maude! why, you never imagined that Lady 
Maude would leave comfort and civilization for this bush 
life, with its rancheros and rattlesnakes. I confess,” said 
he, with a bitter laugh, “ I did not think either of you were 
bent on being Paul or Virginia.” 

“ Have I your Lordship’s permission to ask her own 
judgment in the matter ; I mean with the assurance of its 
not being biassed by you ? ” 

“Freely, most freely do I give it. She is not the girl I 
believe her if she leaves you long in doubt. But I prejudge 
nothing, and I influence nothing.” 

“Am I to conclude, my Lord, that I am sure of this 
appointment? ” 

“ I almost believe I can say you are. I have asked for 
a reply by telegraph, and I shall probably have one to- 
morrow.” 

“You seemed to have acted under the conviction that I 
should be glad to get this place.” 

“Yes, such was my conclusion. After that ‘fiasco’ in 
Ireland you must go somewhere, for a time at least, out of 
the way. Now, as a man cannot die for half-a-dozen years 
and come back to life when people have forgotten his 
unpopularity, the next best thing is South America. Bo- 
gota and the Argentine Republic have whitewashed many a 
reputation.” 

“ I will remember your Lordship’s wise words.” 

“ Do so,” said my Lord, curtly, for he felt offended at the 
flippant tone in which the other spoke. “I don’t mean to 
say that I ’d send the writer of that letter yonder to Yucatan 
or Costa Rica.” 

“ IVho may the gifted writer be, my Lord? ” 

“ Atlee, Joe Atlee ; the fellow you sent over here.” 

“ Indeed ! ” was all that Walpole could utter. 


430 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Just take it to }^our room and read it over. You will 
be astonished at the thing. The fellow has got to know the 
bearings of a whole set of new questions, and how he under- 
stands the men he has got to deal with ! ” 

“ With your leave I will do so,” said he, as he took the 
letter and left the room. 


CHAPTER LX. 


“ A DEFEAT.” 

Cecil Walpole’s Italian experiences had supplied him with 
an Italian proverb which says, “ Tutto il mal non vien per 
nuocere,” or, in other words, that no evil comes unmixed 
with good ; and there is a marvellous amount of wisdom in 
the adage. 

That there is a deep philosophy, too, in showing how 
carefully we should sift misfortune to the dregs, and ascertain 
what of benefit we might rescue from the dross, is not to be 
denied ; and the more we reflect on it, the more should we 
see that the germ of all real consolation is intimately bound 
up in this reservation. 

No sooner, then, did Walpole, in novelist phrase, “ realize 
the fact ” that he was to go to Guatemala, than he set very 
practically to inquire what advantages, if any, could be 
squeezed out of this unpromising incident. 

The creditors — and he had some — would not like it! 
The dreary process of dunning a man across half the globe, 
the hopelessness of appeals that took two months to come to 
hand, and the inefficacy of threats that were wafted over 
miles of ocean I And certainly he smiled as he thought of 
these, and rather maliciously bethought him of the truculent 
importunity that menaced him with some form of publicity 
in the more insolent appeal to some Minister at home. “ Our 
tailor will moderate his language, our jeweller will appreci- 
ate the merits of polite letter-writing,” thought he. “ A few 
parallels of latitude become a great schoolmaster.” 

But there were greater advantages even than these. This 
banishment — for it was nothing else — could not by any 
possibility be persisted in, and if Lady Maude should con- 
sent to accompany him, would be very short-lived. 


43*2 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“The women wnll take it up,” said he, “and with that 
charming clanship that distinguishes them, will lead the 
Foreign Secretary a life of misery, till he gives us some- 
thing better. ‘ Maude says the thermometer has never been 
lower than 132 deg., and that there is no shade. The nights 
have no breeze, and are rather hotter than the days. She 
objects seriously to be waited on by people in feathers, and 
very few of them, and she remonstrates against alligators in 
the kitchen-garden, and wild cats coming after the canaries 
in the drawing-room.’ 

“1 hear the catalogue of misfortunes, which begins with 
nothing to eat, plus the terror of being eaten. I recognize 
the lament over lost civilization and a wasted life, and I see 
Downing Street besieged with ladies in deputations, declaring 
that they care nothing for party or politics, but a great deal 
for the life of a dear young creature who is to be sacrificed 
to appease some people belonging to the existing Ministry. 
I think 1 know how beautifully illogical they will be, but 
how necessarily successful ; and now for Maude herself.” 

Of Lady Maude Bickerstaffe Walpole had seen next to 
nothing since his return ; his own ill health had confined 
him to his room, and her inquiries after him had been cold 
and formal ; and though he wrote a tender little note and 
asked for books, slyly hinting what measure of bliss a five 
minutes’ visit would confer on him, the books he begged for 
were sent, but not a line of answer accompanied them. On 
the whole, he did not dislike this little show of resentment. 
What he really dreaded was indifference. So long as a 
woman is piqued with you, sometliing can always be done ; 
it is onl}" when she .becomes careless and unmindful of what 
you do or say or look or think that the game looks hopeless. 
Therefore it was that he regarded this demonstration of 
anger as rather favorable than otherwise. 

“ Atlee has told her of the Greek! Atlee has stirred np 
her jealousy of the Titian girl. Atlee has drawn a long 
indictment against me, and the fellow has done me good 
service in giving me something to plead to. Let me have 
a charge to meet, and I have no misgivings. What really 
unmans me is the distrust that will not even utter an allesa- 
tion, and the indifference that does not want disproof.” 


433 


“A DEFEAT.” 

He learned that her Ladyship was in the garden, and he 
hastened down to meet her. In his own small way Walpole 
was a clever tactician ; and he counted much on the ardor 
with which he should open his case, and the amount of im- 
petuosity that would give her very little time for reflection. 

“ I shall at once assume that her fate is irrevocably knitted 
to my own, and I shall act as though the tie was indissoluble. 
After all, if she puts me to the proof, I liave her letters, — cold 
and guarded enough, it is true. No fervor, no gush of any 
kind, but calm dissertations on a future that must come, and 
a certain dignified acceptance of her own part in it. Not the 
kind of letters that a Q. C. could read with much rapture 
before a crowded court, and ask the assembled grocers, 
‘ What happiness has life to offer to the man robbed of those 
precious pledges of affection, — how was he to face the 
world, stripped of every attribute that cherished hope and 
fed ambition ? ’ ” 

He was walking slowly towards her when he first saw her, 
and he had some seconds to prepare himself ere they met. 

“ I came down after you, Maude,” said he, in a voice 
ingeniously modulated between the tone of old intimacy and 
a slight suspicion of emotion. “ I came down to tell you my 
news — ” he waited, and then added, “ my fate! ” 

Still she was silent, the changed word exciting no more 
interest than its predecessor. 

“Feeling as I do,” he went on, “ and how we stand to- 
wards each other, I cannot but know that my destiny has 
nothing good or evil in it, except as it contributes to your 
happiness.” He stole a glance at her, but there was nothing 
in that cold, calm face that could guide him. With a bold 
effort, however, he went on: “ My own fortune in life has 
but one test, — is my existence to be shared with you or 
not? With hand in mine, Maude,” — and he grasped 
the marble-cold fingers as he spoke — ‘ ‘ poverty, exile, hard- 
ships, and the world's neglect have no terrors for me. 
With your love, every ambition of my heart is gratified. 
Without it — ” 

“Well, without it — what?” said she, with a faint smile. 

“You would not torture me by such a doubt? Would you 
rack my soul by a misery I have not words to speak of? ” 

28 


434 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“I thought you were going to say what it might be, when 
I stopped you.” 

“Oh, drop this cold and bantering tone, dearest Maude. 
Remember the question is now of my very life itself. If 
you cannot be affectionate, at least be reasonable! ” 

“I shall try,” said she, calmly. 

Stung to the quick by a composure which he could not 
imitate, he was able, however, to repress every show of 
anger, and with a manner cold and measured as her own, he 
went on: “My Lord advises that I should go back to diplo- 
macy, and has asked the Ministers to give me Guatemala. 
It is nothing very splendid. It is far away in a remote part 
of the world; not over-well paid, but, at least, I shall be 
Charge-d’ Affaires, and by three years — four, at most — 
of this banishment I shall have a claim for something 
better.” 

“I hope you may, I’m sure,” said she, as he seemed to 
expect something like a remark. 

“That is not enough, Maude, if the hope be not a wish, 
— and a wish that includes self-interest.” 

“I am so dull, Cecil; tell me what you mean? ” 

“Simply this, then: does your heart tell you that you 
could share this fortune, and brave these hardships; in 
one Avord, will you say what will make me regard this fate 
as the happiest of my existence? Will you give me this 
dear hand as my own, — my own? ” and he pressed his lips 
upon it rapturously as he spoke. 

She made no effort to release her hand ; nor for a second 
or two did she say one word. At last, in a very measured 
tone, she said, “I should like to have back my letters.” 

“Your letters? Do you mean, Maude, that — that you 
would break with me?” 

“I mean, certainly, that I should not go to this horrid 
place — ” 

“Then I shall refuse it,” broke he in, impetuouslv. 

“Not that only, Cecil,” said she, for the first time falter- 
ing; “but except being very good friends, I do not desire 
that there should be more between us.” 

“No engagement?” 

“No, no engagement. I do not believe there ever was an 


“A DEFEAT.” 


435 


actual promise, at least on my part. Other people had no 
right to promise for either of ns; and — and, in fact, the 
present is a good opportunity to end it.” 

“To end it,” echoed he, in intense bitterness, — “to 
end it? ” 

“And I should like to have my letters,” said she, calmly, 
while she took some freshly plucked flowers from a basket 
on her arm, and appeared to seek for something at the 
bottom of the basket. 

“I thought you would come down here, Cecil,” said she, 

when you had spoken to my uncle. Indeed, I was sure 
you would, and so I brought these with me.” And she drew 
forth a somewhat thick bundle of notes and letters tied with 
a narrow ribbon. “Ihese are yours,” said she, handiim 
them. 

Far more piqued by her cold self-possession than really 
wounded in feeling, he took the packet without a word. 
At last he said, “This is your own wish, — your own, un- 
prompted by others ? ” 

She stared almost insolently at him for answer. 

“I mean, Maude, — oh, forgive me if I utter that dear 
name once more, — 1 mean there has been no influence used 
to make you treat me thus? ” 

“You have known me to very little purpose all these 3mars, 
Cecil Walpole, to ask me such a question.” 

“I am not sure of that. I know too well what misrepre- 
sentation and calumny can do an^^where; and I have been 
involved in certain difficulties which, if not explained away, 
might be made accusations, — grave accusations.” 

“I make none; 1 listen to none.” 

“I have become an object of complete indifference, then? 
You feel no interest in me either way. If I dared, Maude, 
I should like to ask the date of this change, — when it 
began ? ” 

“I don’t well know what jmu mean. There was not, so 
far as I am aware, anything between us, except a certain 
esteem and respect, of which convenience was to make 
something more. Now convenience has broken faith with 
us ; but we are not the less verv good friends, — excellent 
friends, if 3^011 likft ” 


436 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


‘‘Excellent friends! I could swear to the friendship!” 
said he, with a malicious energy. - 

“So, at least, I mean to be,” said she, calmly. 

“ I hope it is not I shall fail in the compact. And now 
will my quality of friend entitle me to ask one question, 
Maude? ” 

“I am not sure till I hear it.” 

“I might have hoped a better opinion of my discretion; 
at all events, I will risk my question. What I would ask is, 
how far Joseph Atlee is mixed up with your judgment of 
me? Will you tell me this?” 

“I will only tell }^ou, sir, that you are over-vain of that 
discretion you believe you possess.” 

“Then I am right,” cried he, almost insolently. “I have 
hit the blot.” 

A glance, a mere glance of haughty disdain, was the only 
reply she made. 

“I am shocked, Maude,” said he at last. “lam ashamed 
that we should spend in this way perhaps the very last few 
minutes we shall ever pass together. Heart-broken as I 
am, I should desire to carry away one memory, at least, of 
her whose love was the loadstar of my existence.” 

“I want my letters, Cecil,” said she, coldly. 

“So that you came down here with mine, prepared for 
this rupture, Maude? It was all prearranged in your 
mind.” 

“More discretion; more discretion, or good taste, — 
which is it? ” 

“I ask pardon, most humbly I ask it; your rebuke was 
quite just. I was presuming upon a past which has no rela- 
tion to the present. I shall not offend any more. And 
now what was it you said?” 

“I want my letters.” 

“They are here,” said he, drawing a thick envelope fully 
crammed with letters from his pocket, and placing it in her 
hand. “Scarcely as carefully or as nicely kept as mine, for 
they have been read over too many times ; and with what 
rapture, Maude! How pressed to my heart and to my lips, 
how treasured! Shall I tell 3^011? ” 

Idiere was that of exaggerated passion — almost rant — in 


“A DEFEAT.” 


437 


these last words that certainly did not impress them with 
reality; and either Lady Maude was right in doubting their 
sincerity, or cruelly unjust, for she smiled faintly as she 
heard them. 

“No, don’t tell me,” said she, faintly. “I am already so 
much flattered by courteous anticipation of my wishes that I 
ask for nothing more.” 

He bowed his head lowly; but his smile was one of tri- 
umph, as he thought how, this time at least, he had 
wounded her. 

“There are some trinkets, Cecil,” said she, coldly, 
“which I have made into a packet, and you will find them 
on your dressing-table. And — it may save you some dis- 
comfort if I say that you need not give yourself trouble to 
recover the little ring with an opal I once gave you, for I 
have it now.” 

“ May 1 dare ? ” 

“You may not dare. Good-bye.” 

And she gave her hand ; he bent over it for a moment, 
scarcely touched it with his lips, and turned away. 


CHAPTER LXL 


A “change of front.” 


Of all the discomfitures in life there was one which Cecil 
AValpole did not believe could possibly befall him. Indeed, 
if it could have been made a matter of betting, he would 
have wagered all he had in the world that no woman should 


ever be able to say she refused his offer of marriage. 

He had canvassed the matter verv often with himself, and 
always arrived at the same conclusion, — that if a man were 
not a mere coxcomb, blinded by vanit}^ and self-esteem, he 
could always know how a woman really felt towards him; 
and that where the question admitted of a donbt, where, 
indeed, there was even a flaw in the absolute certainty, no 
man with a due sense of what was owing to himself would 


risk his dignity" by the possibility of a refusal. It was a 
part of his peculiar ethics that a man thus rejected was 
damaged, pretty much ns a bill that has been denied accept- 
ance. It was the same wound to credit, the same outrage 
on character. Considering, therefore, that nothing obliged 
a man to make an offer of his hand till he had assured him- 
self of success, it was to his thinkins; a mere gratuitous 
pursuit of insult to be refused. That no especial delicacy 
kept these things secret, that women talked of them freely, 
— ay, triumphantly, — that the}^ made the staple of conver- 
sation at afternoon tea and the club, with all the flippant 
comments that dear friends know how to contribute as to 
yonr vanity and presumption, he was well aware. Indeed, 
he had been long an eloquent contributor to that scandal 
literature which amuses the leisure of fashion and helps on 
the tedium of an ordinary dinner. How Lady Maude 
would report the late scene in the garden to the Countess of 
Mecherscroft, who would tell it to her company at her 


A “CHANGE OF FRONT.” 


439 


country-house! — How the Lady Georginas would discuss it 
over luncheon, and the Lord Georges talk of it out shooting! 
Vv^hat a host of pleasant anecdotes would be told of his inor- 
dinate puppyism and self-esteem! How even the dullest 
fellows would dare to throw a stone at him! What a target 

O 

for a while he would be for every marksman at any range 
to shoot at! All these his quick-witted ingenuity pictured 
at once before him. 

“I see it all,” cried he, as he paced his room in self- 
examination. “ 1 have suffered myself to be carried away 
by a burst of momentary impulse. 1 brought up all my 
reserves, and have failed utterly. Nothing can save me now 
but a ‘ change of front.’ It is the last bit of generalship 
remaining, — a change of front, a change of front! ” And 
he repeated the words over and over, as though hoping they 
might light up his ingenuity. “I might go and tell her 
that all I had been saying was mere jest; that I could never 
have dreamed of asking her to follow me into barbarism; 
that to go to Guatemala was equivalent to accepting a 
yellow fever, — it w^as courting disease, perhaps death; 
that my insistence was a mere mockery, in the worst pos- 
sible taste; but that I had already agreed with Lord Danes- 
bury, our engagement should be cancelled ; that his Lord- 
ship’s memory of our conversation would corroborate me in 
saying I had no intention to propose such a sacrifice to her; 
and, indeed, I had but provoked her to say the very things 
and use the very arguments I had already emplo3^ed to m}’- 
self as a sort of aid to 1113" own heartfelt convictions. Here 
would be a ‘ change of front ’ with a vengeance. 

“She will already have written off the whole interview; 
the despatch is finished,” cried he, after a moment. “It is 
a change of front the day after the battle. The people will 
read of 1113^ manoBuvre with the bulletin of victory before 
them. 

“Poor Frank Touchet used to say,” cried he, aloud, 
“ ‘ Whenever they refuse my checks at the Bank, I always 
transfer my account ; ’ and, fortunately, the world is big 
enough for these tactics for several years. That ’s a 
change of front, too, if I knew how to adapt it. I must 
marry another woman; there’s nothing else for it. It is 


440 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


the only escape; and the question is, Who shall she be?” 
The more he meditated over this change of front the more 
he saw that his destiny pointed to the Greek. If he could 
see clearly before him to a high career in diplomacy, the 
Greek girl, in everything but fortune, would suit him well. 
Her marvellous beauty, her grace of manner, her social tact 
and readiness, her skill in languages, were all the very qual- 
ities most in request. Such a woman would make the full 
complement, by her fascinations, of^ all that her husband 
could accomplish by his abilities. The little indiscretions 
of old men — especially old men — with these women, the 
lapses of confidence they made them, the dropping admis- 
sions of this or that intention, made up what Walpole knew 
to be high diplomacy. 

“Nothing worth hearing is ever got by a man,” was an 
adage he treasured as deep wisdom. Why Kings resort to 
that watering-place, and accidentally meet certain Ministers 
going somewhere else; why Kaisers affect to review troops 
here, that they maybe able to talk statecraft there; how 
princely compacts and contracts of marriage are made at 
sulphur springs, — all these and such like leaked out as small 
talk with a young and pretty woman, whose frivolity of 
manner went bail for the safety of the confidence, and 
went far to persuade Walpole that though Bank Stock might 
be a surer investment, there were paying qualities in certain 
women that in the end promised larger returns than mere 
money, and higher rewards than mere wealth. “Yes,” cried 
he to himself, “this is the real change of front; this has all 
in its favor.” 

Nor yet all. Strong as Walpole’s self-esteem was, and 
high his estimate of his own capacity, he had — he could 
not conceal it — a certain misgiving as to whether he really 
understood that girl or not. “I have watched man}’ a bolt 
from her bow,” said he, “and think I know their range. 
But now and then she has shot an arrow into the clear sky, 
and far beyond my sight to follow it.” 

That scene in the wood, too. Absurd enough that it 
should obtrude itself at such a moment; but it was the sort 
of indication that meant much more to a man like AYalpole 
than to men of other experiences. AYas she fiirting with 


A “CHANGE OF FRONT.” 


441 


this young Austrian soldier? No great harm if she were; 
but still there had been passages between himself and her 
which should have bound her over to more circumspection. 
Was there not a shadowy sort of engagement between 
them? Lawyers deem a mere promise to grant a lease as 
ec|uivalent to a contract. It would be a curious Question in 
morals to inquire how far the licensed perjuries of court- 
ship are statutory offences. Perhaps a sly consciousness on 
his own part that he was not playing perfectly fair made 
him, as it might do, more than usually tenacious that his 
adversary should be honest. What chance the innocent 
public would have with two people who were so adroit Avith 
each other was his next thought; and he actually laughed 
aloud as it occurred to him. “1 only wish my Lord would 
invite us here before we sail. If I could but show her to 
Maude, half an hour of these women together would be the 
heaviest vengeance I could ask her! I wonder how could 
that be managed ? ” 

“A despatch, sir, his Lordship begs you to read,” said a 
servant, entering. It was an open envelope, and contained 
these words on a slip of paper; — 

“W. shall have Guatemala. He must go out by the mail 
of November 15. Send him here for instructions.” Some 
words in cipher followed, and an under-secretary’s initials. 

“Now, then, for the ‘ change of front.’ 1 ’ll write to Nina 
by this post. I ’ll ask my Lord to let me tear off this por- 
tion of the telegram, and 1 shall enclose it.” 

The letter was not so easily written as he thought; at 
least, he made more than one draught, and was at last in 
great doubt whether a long statement or a few and very 
decided lines might be better. How he ultimately deter- 
mined, and what he said, cannot be given here; for, unhap- 
pily, the conditions of my narrative require I should ask my 
reader to accompany me to a very distant spot, and other 
interests which were just then occupying the attention of 
an almost forgotten acquaintance of ours, the redoubted 
Joseph Atlee. 


CHAPTER LXII. 


WITH A PASHA. 

Joseph Atlee had a very busy moriiiug of it on a certain 
November day at Pera, when the post brought him tidings 
that Lord Danesbury had resigned the Irish Viceroyalty, 
and had been once more named to his old post as Ambassa- 
dor at Constantinople. 

“My uncle desires me,” wrote Lady Maude, “to impress 
you with the now all-important necessity of obtaining the 
papers you know of, and, so far as you are able, to secure 
that no authorized copies of them are extant. Kulbash 
Pasha will, my Lord says, be very tractable w^hen once 
assured that our return to Turkey is a certainty; but should 
voii detect si2:ns of hesitation or distrust in the Grand 
Vizier’s conduct, you will hint that the investigation as to 
the issue of the Galatz shares — ‘ preference shares ’ — may 
be re-opened at any moment, and that the Ottoman Bank 
agent, Schaffer, has drawn up a memoir which my uncle 
now holds. I copy my Lord’s words for all this, and sin- 
cerely hope you will understand it, which, I confess, I do 
not at all. My Lord cautioned me not to occupy your time 
or attention by any reference to Irish questions, but leave 
you perfectly free to deal with those larger interests of the 
East that should now engage you. I forl)ear, therefore, to 
do more than mark with a pencil the part in the debates 
which might interest you, especially, and merely add the 
fact, otherwise, perhaps, not very credible, that Mr. Wal- 
pole did write the famous letter imputed to him, did prom- 
ise the amnesty, or whatever be the name of it, and did 
pledge the honor of the Government to a transaction with 
these Fenian leaders. With what success to his own pros- 


WITH A PASHA. 


443 


pects the ‘ Gazette ’ will speak, that anuounces his appoint- 
meut to Guatemala. 

“ I am myself very far from sorry at our change of desti- 
nation. I prefer the Bosphorus to the Bay of Dublin, and 
like Pera better than the Phoenix. It is not alone that the 
interests are greater, the questions larger, and the conse- 
quences more important to the world at large, but that, as 
my uncle has just said, you are spared the peddling imper- 
tinence of Parliament interfering at every moment, and 
questioning your conduct, from an invitation to Cardinal 
Cullen to the dismissal of a chief constable. Happily, the 
gentlemen at Westminster know nothing about Turkey, and 
have the prudence not to ventilate their ignorance, except in 
secret committee. I am sorry to have to tell you that my 
Lord sees great difficulty in what you propose as to yourself. 
F. O., he says, would not easily consent to your being 
named even a third secretary without your going through 
the established grade of attache. All the unquestionable 
merits he knows you to possess would count for nothing 
against an official regulation. The course my Lord would 
suggest is this: To enter now as mere attache, to continue in 
this position some three or four months, come over here for 
the general election in February, get into ‘ the House,’ and 
after some few sessions — one or two — rejoin diplomacy, to 
wffiich you might be appointed as a secretary of legation. 
My uncle named to me three, if not four, cases of this kind. 
One, indeed, stepped at once into a mission and became a 
minister; and tliough, of course, the Opposition made a 
fuss, they failed in their attempt to break the appointment, 
and the man will probably be soon an ambassador. I 
accept the little yataghan, but sincerely wish the present 
had been of less value. There is one enormous emerald in 
the handle which I am much tempted to transfer to a ring. 
Perhaps I ought, in decency, to have your permission for 
the change. The burnous is very beautiful, but I could not 
accept it; an article of dress is in the category of things 
impossible. Have you no Irish sisters, or even cousins? 
Prav give me a destination to address it to in your next. 

“My uncle desires me to say that, all invaluable as your 
services have become where you are, he needs you greatly 


444 


LO]iD KILGOBBIN. 


here, and would hear with pleasure that you were about to 
return, lie is curious to know who wrote ^ L’Orient et Lord 
D.’ in the last ^ Revue des DeuxMondes. ’ The savagery of 
the attack implies a personal rancor. Find out the author, 
and reply to him in the ‘Edinburgh.’ My Lord suspects 
he may have had access to the papers he has already alluded 
to, and is the more eager to repossess them.” 

A telegraphic despatch in cipher was put into his hands 
as he was reading. It was from Lord Dauesbury, and said, 
“Come back as soon as you can, but not before making K. 
Pasha know his fate is in my hands.” 

As the Grand Vizier had already learned from the Otto- 
man Ambassador at London the news that Lord Danesbury 
was about to resume his former post at Constantinople, his 
Turkish impassiveness was in no way imperilled by Atlee’s 
abrupt announcement. It is true he would have been 
pleased had the English Government sent out some one new 
to the East and a stranger to all Oriental questions. He 
would have liked one of those veterans of diplomacy versed 
in the old-fashioned ways and knaveries of German courts, 
and whose shrewdest ideas of a subtle policy are centred 
in a few social spies and a “Cabinet Noir.” The Pasha 
had no desire to see there a man who knew all the secret 
machinery of a Turkish administration, what corruption 
could do, and where to look for the men who could 
employ it. 

The thing was done, however, and with that philosophy 
of resignation to a fact in which no nation can rival his own, 
he muttered his polite congratulations on the event, and 
declared that the dearest wish of his heart was now accom- 
plished. 

“We had half begun to believe you had abandoned us, 
Mr. Atlee,” said he. “When England commits her inter- 
ests to inferior men, she usuall^^ means to imply that they 
are worth nothing better. I am rejoiced to see that we are, 
at last, awakened from this delusion. With his Excellency 
Lord Danesbury here, we shall be soon once more where we 
have been.” 

“Your fleet is in effective condition, well armed and well 
disciplined? ” 


WITH A PASHA. 


445 


“All, all,” smiled the Pasha. 

“The army reformed, the artillery supplied with the most 
efficient guns, and officers of European services encouraged 
to join 3’our staff?” 

“All.” 

“Wise economies in your financial matters, close super- 
vision in the collection of the revenue, and searching inqui- 
ries where abuses exist?” 

“All.” 

“Especial care that the administration of justice should 
be bevond even the malevolence of distrust, that men of 
station and influence should be clear-handed and honorable, 
not a taint of unfairness to attach to them?” 

“Be it all so,” ejaculated the Pasha, blandly. 

“By the way, I am reminded by a line I have just 
received from his Excellency with reference to Sulina, or 
was it Galatz ? ” 

The Pasha could not decide, and he went on: — 

“ I remember, it is Galatz. There is some curious ques- 
tion there of a concession for a line of railroad, which a 
Servian commissioner had the skill to obtain from the 
Cabinet here, by a sort of influence which our Stock 
Exchange people in London scarcely regard as regular.” 
The Pasha nodded to imply attention, and smoked on as 
before. 

“But I weary your Excellency,” said Atlee, rising, “and 
my real business here is accomplished.” 

“Tell my Lord that I await his arrival with impatience; 
that of all pending questions none shall receive solution till 
he comes; that I am the very least of his servants.” And 
with an air of most dignified sincerity he bowed him out; 
and Atlee hastened away to tell his chief that he had 
“squared the Turk,” and w^ould sail on the morrow. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 


ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS. 

On board the Austrian Lloyd’s steamer in which he sailed 
from Constantinople, Joseph Atlee employed himself in the 
composition of a small volume purporting to be ‘‘ The 
Experiences of a Two Years’ Residence in Greece.” In an 
opening chapter of this work he had modestly intimated 
to the reader how an intimate acquaintance with the lan- 
guage and literature of modern Greece, great opportunities 
of mixing with every class and condition of the people, 
a mind well stored with classical acquirements and thor- 
oughly versed in antiquarian lore, a strong poetic temper- 
ament and the feeling of an artist for scenery, had all 
combined to give him a certain fitness for his task ; and 
by the extracts from his diary it would be seen on what 
terms of freedom he conversed with ministers and ambas- 
sadors, even with royalty itself. 

A most pitiless chapter was devoted to the exposure of the 
mistakes and misrepresentations of a late “ Quarterly” arti- 
cle called “Greece and her Protectors,” whose statements 
were the more mercilessly handled and ridiculed that the 
paper in question had been written by himself, and the 
sarcastic allusions to the sources of the information not the 
less pungent on that account. 

That the writer had been admitted to frequent audi- 
ences of the king ; that he had discussed with his Majesty 
the cutting of the Isthmus of Corintli ; that the king had 
seriously confided to him his belief that in the event of 
his abdication the Ionian Islands must revert to him as a 
personal appanage, the terms on which they were annexed 
to Greece being decided by lawyers to bear this interpre- 


ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS. 


447 


tation, — all these Atlee denied of his own knowledge, and 
asked the reader to follovv him into the royal cabinet for 
his reasons. 

When, therefore, he heard that from some damage to 
the machinery the vessel must be detained some days at 
Syra to refit, Atlee was scarcely sorry that necessity gave 
him an opportunity to visit Athens. 

A little about Ulysses and a good deal about Lord Byron, 
a smattering of Grote, and a more perfect memory of 
About were, as he owned to himself, all his Greece ; but 
he could answer for what three days in the country would 
do for him, particularly with that spirit of candid inquiry 
he could now bring to his task, and the genuine fairness 
with which he desired to judge the people. 

“The two years’ resident” in Athens must doubtless 
often have dined with his Minister, and so Atlee sent his 
card to the Legation. 

Mr. Brammell, our “ present Minister at Athens,” as the 
“ Times ” continued to designate him, as though to imply 
that the appointment might not be permanent, was an 
excellent man, of that stamp of which diplomacy has more, 
— who consider that the court to which they are accred- 
ited concentrates for the time the political interests of the 
globe. That any one in Europe thought, read, spoke, or 
listened to anything but what was then happening in Greece, 
Mr. Brammell could not believe. That France or Prussia, 
Spain or Italy, could divide attention with this small king- 
dom ; that the great political minds of the Continent were 
not more eager to know what Comoundouros thought and 
Bulgaris required, than all about Bismarck and Gortchakoff, 
he could not be brought to conceive ; and in consequence 
of these convictions he was an admirable Minister, and 
fully represented all the interests of his country. 

As that admirable public instructor, the “Levant Her- 
ald,” had frequently mentioned Atlee’s name, now as the 
guest of Kulbash Pasha, *now as having attended some 
public ceremony with other persons of importance, and 
once as “ our distinguished countryman, whose wise sug- 
gestions and acute observations liave been duly accepted 
by. the imperial cabinet,” Brammell at once knew that this 


448 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


distiim’uished couiitryinaii should be euteituiiied at dinuei, 
and he sent him an invitation. That habit — so popular 
of late years — to send out some man from England to do 
something at a foreign court that the British Ambassa- 
dor or Minister there either has not done, or cannot do, 
possibly 0112,'ht never to do, had invested Atlee in Biam- 
mell’s eyes with the character of one of those semi-acci ed- 
ited inscrutable people whose function it would seem 
to be to make us out the most meddlesome people in 
Europe. 

Of course Brammell was not pleased to see him at Athens, 
and he ran over all the possible contingencies he might 
have come for. It might be the old Oreek loan which 
was to be raked up again as a new grievance. It might 
be the pensions that they would not pay, or the brigands 
that they would not catch, — pretty much for the same 
reasons, — that they could not. It might be that they 
wanted to hear what Tsousicheff, the new^ Russian Minis- 
ter, was doing, and whether the farce of the “ Grand Idea” 
was advertised for repetition. It might be Crete \vas on 
the fapis, or it might be the question of the Greek envoy 
to the Porte that the Sultan refused to receive, and which 
promised to turn out a very pretty quarrel if only adroitly 
treated. 

The more Brammell thought of it, the more he felt 
assured this must be the reason of Atlee’s visit, and the 
more indignant he grew that extra-ofticial means should be 
employed to investigate what he had written seventeen 
despatches to explain, — seventeen despatches, with nine 
“enclosures,” and a “private and confidential,” about to 
appear in a blue-book. 

To make the dinner as confidential as might be, the only 
guests besides Atlee were a couple of yachting Englishmen, 
a German Professor of Archaeology, and the American 
^Minister, who, of course, speaking no language but his 
owm, could always be escaped from by a digression into 
French, German, or Italian. 

Atlee felt, as he entered the drawing-room, that the com- 
pany was what he irreverentl}" called afterwards a scratch 
team ; and with an almost equal quickness, he saw that, he 


ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS. 


449 


himself was the “ personage ” of the entertainment, the 
“man of mark” of the party. 

The same tact which enabled him to perceive ail this 
made him especially guarded in all he said, so that his host’s 
efforts to unveil his intentions and learn what he had come 
for were complete failures. “ Greece was a charming 
country, — Greece was the parent of any civilization we 
boasted. She gave us those ideas of architecture with which 
we raised that glorious temple at Kensington, and that 
taste for sculpture which we exhibited near Apsley House. 
Aristophanes gave us our comic drama, and only the defaults 
of our language made it difficult to show why the Member for 
Cork did not more often recall Demosthenes.” 

As for insolvency, it was a very gentlemanlike failing ; 
while brigandage was only what Shell used to euphemizo as 
“the wild justice” of noble spirits, too impatient for the 
sluggard steps of slow redress, and too proud not to be 
self-reliant. 

Thus excusing and extenuating wherein he could not 
flatter, Atlee talked on the entire evening, till he sent the 
two Englishmen home heartily sick of a bombastic eulogy on 
the land where a pilot had run their cutter on a rock, and a 
revenue officer had seized all tlieir tobacco. The German 
had retired early, and the Yankee hastened to his lodgings 
to “jot down” all the fine things he could commit to his 
next despatch home, and overwhelm Mr. Seward with an 
array of historic celebrities such as had never been seen 
at Washington. 

“Tiiey’re gone at last,” said the Minister. “Let us 
have our cigar on the terrace.” 

The unbounded frankness, the unlimited trustfulness that 
now ensued between these two men, was charming. Bram- 
mell represented one hard worked and sorely tried in his 
country’s service, — the perfect slave of office, spending 
nights long at his desk, but not appreciated, not valued at 
home. It was delightful, therefore, to him to find a man 
like Atlee, to whom he could tell this, — could tell for what 
an ungrateful countrv he toiled, what ignorance he sought 
to enlighten, wffiat actual stupidity he had to counteract. 
He spoke of the office, — from his tone of horror it might 

29 


450 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


have been the Holy Office, — with a sort of tremulous terror 
and aversion ; tlie absurd instructions they sent him, the 
impossible things he was to do, the inconceivable lines of 
policy he was to insist on ; how but for him the king would 
abdicate and a Russian protectorate be proclaimed ; how the 
revolt at Athens would be proclaimed in Thessaly ; how 
Skulkekolf, the Russian General, was waiting to move into 
the provinces “ at the first check my policy shall receive 
here,” cried he. “I shall show you on this map; and liere 
are the names, armament, and tonnage of a hundred and 
ninety-four gunboats now ready at Nicholief to move down 
on Constantinople.” 

Was it not strange, was it not worse than strange, after 
such a show of unbounded confidence as this, Atlee would 
reveal nothing ? Whatever his grievances against the people 
he served, — and who is without them? — he Avould say 
nothing, he had no complaint to make. Things he admitted 
were bad, but they might be worse. The monarchy existed 
still, and the House of Lords was, for a while at least, 
tolerated. Ireland was disturbed, but not in open rebellion 
and if we had no army to speak of, we still had a navy, and 
even the present Admiralty only lost about five ships a 
year ! 

Till long after midnight did they fence with each other, 
with buttons on their foils, — very harmlessly, no doubt, but 
very uselessly too ; Brammell could make nothing of a man 
who neither wanted to hear about finance or taxation, court 
scandal, schools, or public robbery ; and though he could 
not in so many words ask, What have you come for? why 
are you here? he said this in full fifty different ways for 
three hours and more. 

“You make some stay amongst us, I trust?” said the 
IMinister, as his guest rose to take leave, “You mean 
to see something of this interesting country before you 
leave ? ” 

“I fear not; when the repairs to the steamer enable her 
to put to sea, they are to let me know by telegraph, and I 
shall join her.” 

“ Are you so pressed for time that 3^011 cannot spare us a 
w^eek or two ? ” 


ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS. 


451 


“Totally impossible! Parliament will sit in January 
next, and I must hasten home.” 

This was to imply that he was in the House, or that he 
expected to be, or that he ought to be, and, even if he were 
not, that his presence in England was all-essential to some- 
body who was in Parliament, and for whom his information, 
his explanation, his accusation, or anything else, was all 
needed, and so Hrammell read it and bowed accordingly. 

“ By the way,” said the Minister, as the other was leaving 
the room, and with that sudden abruptness of a wayward 
thought, “we have been talking of all sorts of things and 
people, but not a word about what we are so full of here. 
How is this difficulty about the new Greek envoy to the 
Porte to end? You know of course the Sultan refuses to 
receive him ? ” 

“ The Pasha told me something of it, but I confess to have 
paid little attention. I treated the matter as insignificant.” 
“Insignificant! You cannot mean that an affront so 
openly administered as this, the greatest national offence 
that could be offered, is insignificant?” and then with a 
volubility that smacked very little of want of preparation, 
he showed that the idea of sending a particular man, long 
compromised by his complicity in the Cretan revolt, to Con- 
stantinople, came from Russia, and that the opposition of 
the Porte to accept him was also Russian. “ I got to the 
bottom of the whole intrigue. I wrote home how Tsousicheff 
was nursing this new quarrel. I told our people facts of 
the Muscovite policy that they never got a hint of from their 
ambassador at St. Petersburg.” 

“It was rare luck that w’e had you liere ; good-night, 
good-night,” said Atlee, as he buttoned his coat. 

“More than tliat, I said, ‘If the Cabinet here persist in 
sending Kostalergi — ’ ” 

“ Whom did you say? What name was it 3^011 said? ” 

“ Kostalergi — the Prince. As much a prince as you are. 
First of all, they have no better ; and, second!}", this is the 
most consummate adventurer in the East.” 

“ I should like to know him. Is he here, — at Athens? ” 
“ Of course he is. He is w'aiting till he hears the Sultan 
will receive him.” 


452 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I should like to know him/’ said Atlee, more seriously. 
“iS'othing easier. He comes here everyday. Will you 
meet him at dinner to-morrow ? ” 

‘^Delighted! but then I should like a little conversation 
with him in the morning. Perhaps you would kindly make 
me known to him ? ” 

“ With sincere pleasure. I’ll write and ask him to dine, 
and 1 ’ll say that you will wait on him. I ’ll say, ‘ My dis- 
tinguished friend Mr. Atlee, of w^hom you have heard, will 
wait on you about eleven or twelve.’ Will that do?” 

“Perfectly. So then I may make my visit on the pre- 
sumption of being expected ? ” 

“ Certainly. Not that Kostalergi wants much prepara- 
tion. He plays baccarat all night, but he is at his desk at 
six.” 

“Is he rich? ” 

“Hasn’t a sixpence, — but plays all the same; and what 
people are more surprised at, pays w^hen he loses. If I had 
not already passed an evening in your company, I should be 
bold enough to hint to you the need of caution — great 
caution — in talking with him.” 

“I know, — I am aware,” said Atlee, with a meaning 
smile. 

“You will not be misled by his cunning, Mr. Atlee, but 
beware of his candor.” 

“I will be on my guard. jMany thanks for the caution. 
Good-night ! — once more, good-night ! ” 


I 


CHAPTER LXIV. 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 

So excited did Atlee feel about meeting the father of Nina 
Kostalergi, — of whose strange doings and adventurous life 
he had heard much, — that he scarcely slept the entire night. 
It puzzled him greatly to determine iu what character he 
should present himself to this crafty Greek. Political 
amateurship was now so popular in England that he might 
easily enough pass off for one of those “ Bulls” desirous to 
make himself up on the Greek question. This was a part 
that offered no difficulty. “Give me five minutes of any 
man — a little longer with a woman — and I ’ll know where 
his sympathies incline to.” This was a constant boast of 
his, and not altogether a vain one. He might be an ar- 
chicological traveller eager about new-discovered relics, and 
curious about ruined temples. He might be a yachting man, 
who only cared for Salamis as good anchorage, nor thought 
of the Acropolis, except as a point of departure; or he 
might be one of those myriads who travel without knowing 
where or caring why ; airing their ennui now at Thebes, 
now at Trolhatten ; a weariful, dispirited race, who rarely 
look so thoroughly alive as when choosing a cigar or chang- 
ing their money. There was no reason why the “ distin- 
guished Mr. Atlee ” might not be one of these, — he was 
accredited, too, by his Minister, and his “ solidarity,” as 
the French call it, was beyond question. 

While yet revolving these points, a cavass — with much 
gold in his jacket, and a voluminous petticoat of white calico 
— came to inform him that his Excellency the Prince hoped 
to see him at breakfast at eleven o’clock ; and it now only 
wanted a few minutes of that hour. Atlee detained the 
messenger to show him the road, and at last set out. 


454 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


Traversing one dreary, ill-built street after another, they 
arrived at last at what seemed a little lane, the entrance to 
which carriages were denied by a line of stone posts, at the 
extremity of which a small green gate appeared in a wall. 
Poshing this wide open, the cavass stood respectfully, while 
Atlee passed in, and found himself in what for Greece was 
a garden. There were two fine palm-trees, and a small 
scrub of oleanders and dwarf cedars that grew around a little 
fish-pond, where a small Triton in the middle, with distended 
cheeks, should have poured forth a refreshing jet of water, 
but his lips were dry, and his conch-shell empt}^ and the 
muddy tank at his feet a mere surface of broad water-lilies 
convulsively shaken by bull-frogs. A short shady path led 
to the house, a two-storied edifice, with the external stair of 
wood that seemed to crawl round it on every side. 

In a good-sized room of the ground floor Atlee found the 
Prince awaiting him. He was confined to a sofa by a slight 
sprain, he called it, and apologized for his not being able 
to rise. 

The Prince, though advanced in years, was still handsome ; 
his features had all the splendid regularity of their Greek 
origin ; but in the enormous orbits, of which the tint 
was nearly black, and the indented temples, traversed by 
veins of immense size, and the firm compression of his lips, 
might be read the signs of a man who carried the gambling 
spirit into every incident of life, one ready “to back his 
luck,” and show a bold front to fortune when fate proved 
adverse. 

The Greek’s manner was perfect. Tliere was all the ease 
of a man used to society, with a sort of half-sly courtesy, as 
he said, “This is kindness, Mr. Atlee, — this is real kind- 
ness. I scarcely thought an Englishman would have the 
courage to call upon anything so unpopular as I am.” 

“ I have come to see you and the Parthenon, Prince, and 
I have begun with you.” 

“ And you will tell them, when you get home, that I am 
not the terrible revolutionist they think me; that I am 

\ 1 1 , I3 u t a very mild and rather 
tiresome old man, whose extreme violence goes no further 
than believing that people ought to be masters in their own 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 


455 


house, and that when any one disputes the right, the best 
thing is to throw him out of the window.” 

“ If he will not go by the door,” remarked Atlee. 

“ No, 1 would not give him the chance of the door. Other- 
wise you make no distinction between your friends and your 
enemies. It is by the mild methods — what you call ‘milk- 
and-water methods ’ — men spoil all their efforts for freedom. 
You always want to cut off somebody’s head and spill no 
blood. There’s the mistake of those Irish rebels: they tell 
me they have courage, but I find it hard to believe them.” 

“ Do believe them, then, and know for certain that there is 
not a braver people in Europe.” 

How do you keep them down then? ” 

“ You must not ask me that, for I am one of them.” 

“ You Irish?” 

“ Yes, Irish, — very Irish.” 

“Ah! I see. Irish in an English sense? Just as there 
are Greeks here who believe in Kulbash Pasha, and would 
say. Stay at home and till your currant-fields and mind your 
coasting-trade. Don’t try to be civilized, for civilization goes 
badly wdth brigandage, and scarcely suits trickery. And you 
are aware, Mr. Atlee, that trickery and brigandage are more 
to Greece than olives or dried figs ? ” 

There was that of mockery in the way he said this, and 
the little smile that played about his mouth when he finished, 
that left Atlee in considerable doubt how to read him. 

“I study your newspapers, Mr. Atlee,” resumed he. “I 
never omit to read your ‘ Times,’ and I see how my old 
acquaintance. Lord Danesbury, has been making Turkey out 
of Ireland ! It is so hard to persuade an old ambassador 
that you cannot do everything by corruption I ” 

“ I scarcely think you do him justice.” 

“ Poor Danesbury! ” ejaculated he, sorrowfully. 

“ You opine that his policy is a mistake? ” 

“ Poor Danesbury ! ” said he again. 

“ lie is one of our ablest men, notwithstanding. At this 
moment we have not his superior in anything.” 

“I was o-oing to say. Poor Danesbury! but I now say, 
Poor England ! ” 

Atlee bit his lips with anger at the sarcasm, but went on, 


456 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I infer you are not aware of the exact share subordi- 
nates have had in what you call Lord Danesbury’s Irish 
blunders — ” 

“ Pardon my interrupting you, but a really able man has 
no subordinates. His inferior agents are so thoroughly 
absorbed by his own individuality that they have no wdlls. 
no instincts, and therefore they can do no indiscretions. 
They are the simple emanations of himself in action.” 

“ In Turkey, perhaps,” said Atlee, with a smile. 

“ If in Turkey, w'hy not in England, or, at least, in Ireland? 
If you are well served, — and mind, you must be well served, 
or you are powerless, — you can always in political life see 
the adversary’s hand. That he sees yours, is of course true : 
the great question then is, how much you mean to mislead him 
by the showing it? I give you an instance: Lord Danes- 
bury’s cleverest stroke in policy here, the one hit probably 
he made in the East, was to have a private correspondence 
with the Khedive made known to the Russian Embassy, and 
induce Gortschakoff to believe that he could not trust the 
Pasha ! All the Russian preparations to move down on 
the Provinces were countermanded. The stores of grain 
that were being made on the Pruth were arrested, and 
three, nearly four weeks elapsed before the mistake was 
discovered, and in that interval England had reinforced 
the squadron at Malta, and taken steps to encourage 
Turkey, — always to be done by money, or promise of 
money.” 

“ It was a coup of great adroitness,” said Atlee. 

“ It was more,” cried the Greek, with elation. “ It was a 
move of such subtlety as smacks of something higher than 
the Saxon ! The men who do these things have the instinct 
of their craft. It is theirs to understand that chemistry of 
human motives by which a certain combination results in 
effects totally remote from the agents that produce it. Can 
you follow me? ” 

“ I believe I can.” 

“I would rather say. Is my attempt at an explanation 
sufficiently clear to be intelligible ? ” 

Atlee looked fixedly at him, and he could do so unobserved, 
for the other was now occupied in preparing his pipe, without 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 


457 


minding the question. Therefore Atlee set himself to study 
the features before him. It was evident enough, from the 
intensity of his gaze and a certain trembling of his upper 
lip, that the scrutiny cost him no common effort. It was, in 
fact, the effort to divine what, if he mistook to read aright, 
would be an irreparable blunder. 

With the long-drawn inspiration a man makes before he 
adventures a daring feat, he said: “It is time I should be 
candid with you, Prince. It is time I should tell you that I 
am in Greece only to see you.’' 

“ To see me? ” said the other, and a very faint flush passed 
across his face. 

“To see you,” said Atlee, slowly, while he drew out a 
pocket-book and took from it a letter. “ This,” said he, 
handing it, “is to your address.” The words on the cover 
were M. Spiridionides. 

“ I am Spiridion Kostalergi, and by birth a Prince of 
Delos,” said the Greek, weaving back the letter. 

“ I am well aware of that, and it is only in perfect confi- 
dence that I venture to recall a past that your Excellency will 
see I respect ; ” and Atlee spoke with an air of deference. 

“ The antecedents of the men who serve this country are 
not to be measured by the artificial habits of a people who 
regulate condition by money. Your statesmen have no need 
to be journalists, teachers, tutors ; Frenchmen and Italians 
are all these, and on the Lower Danube and in Greece we are 
these and something more. Nor are we less politicians that 
we are more men of the world. The little of statecraft that 
French Emperor ever knew, he picked up in his days of 
exile.” All this he blurted out in short and passionate 
bursts, like an angrv man who was trvino; to be logical in 
his anger, and to make an effort of reason subdue his 
wrath. 

“If I had not understood these things as vou vourself 
understand them, I should not have been so indiscreet as 
to offer you that letter ; ” and once more he proffered it. 

This time the Greek took it, tore open the envelope, and 
read it through. 

“It is from Lord Danesbury,” said he, at length. “When 
we parted last I was, in a certain sense, m3" Lord’s subor- 


458 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


dinate, — that is, there were things none of his staff of 
secretaries or attaches or dragomen could do, and I could 
do them. Times are changed; and if we are to meet again, 
it will be as colleagues. It is true, Mr. Atlee, the Ambassa- 
dor of England and the Envoy of Greece are not exactly of 
the same rank. I do not permit myself many illusions, 
and this is not one of them; but remember, if Great Britain 
be a first-rate power, Greece is a volcano. It is for us to 
say when there shall be an eruption.” 

It was evident, from the rambling tenor of this speech, 
he was speaking rather to conceal his thoughts and give 
himself time for reflection, than to enunciate any definite 
opinion ; and so Atlee, with native acuteness, read him, as 
he simply bowed a cold assent. 

“Why should I give him back his letters?” burst out the 
Greek, warmly. “What does he otter me in exchange for 
them? Money! mere money! By what presumption does 
he assume that I must be in such want of money that the 
only question should be the sum? May not the time come 
when I shall be questioned in our chamber as to certain 
matters of policy, and my only vindication be the documents 
of this same English ambassador, written in his own hand, 
and signed with his name? Will you tell me that the trium- 
phant assertion of a man’s honor is not more to him than 
bank-notes ? ” 

Though the heroic spirit of this speech went but a short 
way to deceive Atlee, who only read it as a plea for a 
higher price, it was his policy to seem to believe every word 
of it, and he looked a perfect picture of quiet conviction. 

“You little suspect what these letters are?” said the 
Greek. 

“I believe I know; I rather think I have a catalogue of 
them and their contents,” mildly hinted the other. 

“Ah, indeed! and are you prepared to vouch for the 
accuracy and completeness of your list?” 

“You must be aware it is only my Lord himself can 
answer that question.” 

“ Is there — in your enumeration — is there the letter 
about Crete, and the false news that deceived the Baron 
de Baude? Is there the note of my instructions to the 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 


459 


Khedive? Is there — I ’in sure there is not — any mention 
of the negotiation with Stephanotis Bey?” 

“1 have seen Stephanotis myself; I have just come from 
him,” said Atlee, grasping at the escape the name offered. 

“Ah, 3^011 know the old Palikao?” 

Intimately; we are, I hope, close friends; he was at 
Kulbash Pasha’s while I was there, and we had much talk 
together.” 

“And from him it was you learned that Spiridionides was 
Spiridion Kostalergi?” said the Greek, slowly. 

“Surel}^ this is not meant as a (question; or, at least, 
a question to be answered?” said Atlee, smiling. 

“No, no, of course not,” replied the other, politely. “We 
are chatting together, if not like old friends, like men who 
have every element to become dear friends. We see life 
pretty much' from the same point of view, Mr. Atlee, is it 
not so?” 

“It would be a great flattery to me to think it.” And 
Joe’s e}^es sparkled as he spoke. 

“One has to make his choice somewhat early in the world, 
whether he will hunt or be hunted; I believe that is about 
the case.” 

“I suspect so.” 

“I did not take long to decide; I took my place with the 
wolves!” Nothing could be more quietly’ uttered than 
these words; but there was a savage ferocit}^ in his look as 
he said them that held Atlee almost spell-bound. “And 
3^ou. Mr. Atlee? and you? I need scarcel}^ ask where your 
choice fell!” 

It was so palpable that the words meant a compliment, 
Atlee had only to smile a polite acceptance of them. 

“These letters,” said the Greek, resuming, and like one 
who had not mentally lapsed from the theme, — “these letters 
are all that m}" Lord deems them. Thej^ are the ver^^ stuff 
that, in ^mur country of publicity and free discussion, 
would make or mar the very best reputations amongst you. 
And,” added he, after a pause, “there are none of them 
destro}^ed, — none! ” 

“He is aware of that.” 

“No, he is not aware of it to the extent I speak of; for 


460 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


many of the documents that he believed he saw burned in 
his own presence, on his own hearth, are here, — here in 
the room we sit in! So that I am in the proud position of 
being able to vindicate his policy in many cases where his 
memory might prove weak or fallacious.” 

“Although I know Lord Danesbury’s value for these 
papers does not bear out your own, I will not suffer myself 
to discuss the point. I return at once to what I have come 
for. Shall I make you an offer in money for them. Monsieur 
Kostalergi? ” 

“What is the amount you propose?” 

“I was to negotiate for a thousand pounds first. I w^as 
to give two thousand at the last resort. I will begin at the 
last resort and pay you two.” 

“Why not piastres, Mr. Atlee? I am sure your instruc- 
tions must have said piastres.” 

Quite unmoved by the sarcasm, Atlee took out his pocket- 
book and read from a memorandum : “ Should M. Kostalergi 
refuse your offer, or think it insufficient, on no account let 
the negotiation take any turn of acrimony or recrimination, 
lie has rendered me great services in past times, and it will 
be for himself to determine whether he should do or say 
what should in any way bar our future relations together.” 
“Phis is not a menace? ” said the Greek, smiling super- 
ciliously. 

“No. It is simply an instruction,” said the other, after 
a slight hesitation. 

“The men who make a trade of diplomacy,” said the 
Greek, haughtily, “reserve it for their dealings with Cabi- 
nets. In home or familiar intercourse they are straightfor- 
"uaid and simple. AVithout these p.apers your noble master 
cannot return to Turkey as ambassador. Do not interrupt 
me. He cannot come back as ambassador to the Porte ! It 
is for him to say how he estimates the post. An ambitious 
man, with ample reason for his ambition, an able man with 
a thorough conviction of his ability, a patriotic man, who 
undei stood and saw the services he could render to his 
country, would not bargain at the price the place should 
cost him, nor say ten thousand pounds too much to nav 
for it.” ^ 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 


461 


‘‘Ten thousand pounds!” exclaimed Atlee, but in real 
and unfeigned astonishment. 

“ I have said ten thousand, and I will not say nine, — 
nor nine thousand nine hundred.” 

Atlee slowly arose and took his hat. 

“I have too much respect for yourself and for your time, 
M. Kostalergi, to impose any longer on your leisure. I 
have no need to say that your proposal is totally unac- 
ceptable.” 

“You have not heard it all, sir. The money is but a part 
of what I insist on. I shall demand, besides, that the 
British Ambassador at Constantinople shall formally sup- 
port my claim to be received as Envoy from Greece, and 
that the whole might of England be pledged to the ratifica- 
tion of my appointment.” 

A very cold but not uncourteous smile was all Atlee’ s 
acknowledgment of this speech. 

“There are small details which regard my title and the 
rank that I lay claim to. With these I do not trouble you. 
I will merely say I reserve them if we should discuss this in 
future.” 

“Of that there is little prospect. Indeed, T see none 
whatever. I may say this much, however. Prince, that I 
shall most willingly undertake to place your claims to be 
received as Minister for Greece at the Porte under Lord 
Danesbury’s notice, and, I have every hope, for favorable 
consideration. We are not likely to meet again; may I 
assume that we part friends? ” 

“You only anticipate my own sincere desire.” 

As they passed slowly through the garden, Atlee stopped 
and said: “Had I been able to tell my Lord, ‘ The Prince is 
just named special envoy at Constantinople. The Turks 
are offended at something he has done in Crete or Thessaly. 
Without certain pressure on the Divan they will not receive 
him. Will your Lordship empower me to say that you will 
undertake this, and, moreover, enable me to assure him that 
all the cost and expenditure of his outfit shall be met in a 
suitable form?’ If, in fact, you give me your permission 
to submit such a basis as this, I should leave Athens far 
happier than I feel now.” 


462 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“The Chamber has already voted the outfit. It is very 
modest, but it is enough. Our uatioual resources are at a 
low ebb. You might, indeed, — that is, if you still wished 
to plead my cause, — you might tell my Lord that I had 
destined this sum as the fortune of my daughter. I have a 
daughter, Mr. Atlee, aud at present sojourn iug iu your own 
country. And though at one time 1 was minded to recall 
her, and take her with me to Turkey, 1 have grown to doubt 
whether it would be a wise policy. Our Greek contingen- 
cies are too many and too sudden to let us project very far 
in life.” 

“Strange enough,” said Atlee, thoughtfully, “you have 
just — as it were, by mere hazard — struck the one chord in 
the English nature that will always respond to the appeal of 
a home affection. Were I to say, ‘ Do you know why 
Kostalergi makes so hard a bargain? It is to endow a 
daughter. It is the sole provision he stipulates to make 
her, — Greek statesmen can amass no fortunes; this hazard 
will secure the girl’s future! ’ On m 3 " life, I cannot think 
of one argument that would have equal weight.” 

Kostalergi smiled faint!}", but did not speak. 

“Lord Danesbuiy never married; but I know with w^hat 
interest and affection he follows the fortunes of men who 
live to secure the happiness of their children: it is the one 
plea he could not resist. To be sure, he might sa}-, ‘ Kosta- 
lergi told }"Ou this, and perhaps at the time he himself 
believed it; but how can a man who likes the world and its 
very costliest pleasures guard himself against his own 
habits? Who is to pledge his honor that the girl will ever 
be the owner of this sum ? ’ ” 

“I shall place that be}"ond a cavil or a question; he shall 
be himself her guardian. The mone}" shall not leave his 
hands till she marries. You have }"our own laws, b}" which 
a man can charge his estate with the payment of a certain 
amount. My Lord, if he assents to this, will know how it 
may be done. I repeat, I do not desire to touch a drachma 
of the sum.” 

“You interest me immeusel}". I cannot tell }"OU how 
intensely I feel interested in all this. In fact, I shall own 
to you, frankl}", that }"ou have at last employed an argu- 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 


463 


ment I do not know how, even if I wished, to answer. 
Am I at liberty to state this pretty much as you have 
told it?” 

“Every word of it.” 

“Will you go further; will you give me a little line, a 
memorandum in your own hand, to show that I do not mis- 
state nor mistake you, — that I have your meaning cor-’ 
rectly, and without even a chance of error?” 

“I will write it formally and deliberately.” 

The bell of the outer door rang at the moment. It was a 
telegraphic message to Atlee, to say that the steamer had 
perfected her repairs and would sail that evening. 

“You mean to sail with her?” asked the Greek. “Well, 
within an hour you shall have my packet. Good-bye. I 
have no doubt we shall hear of each other again.” 

“I think I could venture to bet on it,” were Atlee’ s last 
words as he turned away. 


CHAPTER LXV. 


“in town.” 

Lord Danesbury bad arrived at Bruton Street to confer 
with certain members of the Cabinet who remained in town 
after the session, chiefly to consult with him. He was 
accompanied by his niece, Lady Maude, and by Walpole; 
the latter continuing to reside under his roof, rather from 
old habit than from any strong wish on either side. 

Walpole had obtained a short extension of his leave, and 
employed the time in endeavoring to make up his mind 
about a certain letter to Nina Kostalergi, which he had 
written nearly fifty times in different versions and destroyed. 
Neither his Lordship nor his niece ever saw him. They 
knew he had a room or two somewhere; a servant was occa- 
sionally encountered on the way to him with a breakfast- 
tray and an urn ; his letters were seen on the hall-table; but, 
except these, he gave no signs of life, — never appeared at 
luncheon or at dinner, and as much dropped out of all 
memory or interest as though he had ceased to be. 

It was one evening, yet early, — scarcely eleven o’clock, 
— as Lord Danesbury’s little party of four Cabinet chiefs 
had just departed, that he sat at the drawing-room fire with 
Lady Maude, chatting over the events of the evening’s con- 
versation, and discussing, as men will do at times, the char- 
acters of their guests. 

‘Mt has been nearly as tiresome as a Cabinet Council, 
Maude!” said he, with a sigh, “and not unlike it in one 
thing, — it was almost always the men who knew least of 
any matter who discussed it most exhaustively.” 

“I conclude you know what you are going out to do, my 
Lord, and do not care to hear the desultory notions of 
people who know nothing.” 


“IN TOWN” 


465 


“Just so. What could a First Lord tell me about those 
Russian intrigues in Albania; or is it likely that a Home 
Secretary is aware of what is preparing in Montenegro? 
They get hold of some crotchet in the ‘ Revue de Deux 
Mondes,’ and, assuming it all to be true, they ask defiantly, 

‘ How are you going to deal with that? "Why did you not 
foresee the other?’ and such like. How little they know, 
as that fellow Atlee says, that a man evolves his Turkey 
out of the necessities of his pocket, and captures his Con- 
stantinople to pay for a dinner at the ‘ Freres ’ ! What fleets 
of Russian gunboats have 1 seen launched to procure a few 
bottles of champagne! I remember a chasse of Kersch, with 
the cafe, costing a whole battery of Krupp’s breech- 
loaders 1 ” 

“Are our own journals more correct?” 

“They are more cautious, Maude, — far more cautious. 
Nine days’ wonders with us would be too costly. Nothing 
must be risked that can affect the funds. The share-list is 
too solemn a thing for joking.” 

“■The Premier was very silent to-night,” said she, after a 
pause. 

“He generally is in company; he looks like a man bored 
at being obliged to listen to people saying the things that 
he knows as well, and could tell better than they do.” 

“How completely he appears to have forgiven or for- 
gotten the Irish ” 

“Of course he has. An extra blunder in the conduct of 
Irish affairs is only like an additional mask in a fancy ball, 
— the whole thing is motley; and asking for consistency 
would be like requesting the company to behave like 
archdeacons.” 

“And so the mischief has blown over?” 

“In a measure it has. The Opposition quarrelled 
amongst themselves; and such as were not ready to take 
office if we were beaten declined to press the motion. The 
irresponsibles went on, as they always do, to their own 
destruction. They became violent, and, of course, our 
people appealed against the violence, and with such temper- 
ate language and good breeding that we carried the House 
with us.” 


30 


466 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“I see there was quite a seiisatiou about the word 
‘ villaiu. ’ ” 

“No; ‘miscreant.’ It was ‘miscreant,’ — a word very 
popular in O’Connell’s day, but rather obsolete now. When 
the Speaker called on the member for an apology, we had 
won the day! These rash utterances in debate are the 
explosive balls that no one must use in battle; and if we 
only discover one in a fellow’s pouch, we discredit the whole 
army.” 

“I forget; did they press for a division?” 

“No; we stopped them. We agreed to give them a 
‘ special committee to inquire.’ Of all devices for secrecy 
invented, I know of none like a ‘ special committee of in- 
quiry.’ Whatever people have known beforehand, their 
faith will now be shaken in, and every possible or acci- 
dental contingency assume a shape, a size, and a stability 
beyond all belief. They have got their committee, and I 
wish them luck of it! The only men who could tell them 
anything will take care not to criminate themselves, and the 
report will be a plaintive cry over a country where so few 
people can be persuaded to tell the truth, and nobod}^ should 
seem any worse in consequence.” 

“Cecil certainly did it,” said she, with a certain bitter- 
ness. 

“I suppose he did. These young players are always 
thinking of scoring eight or ten on a single hazard; one 
should never back them ! ” 

“Mr. Atlee said there was some female influence at work. 
He would not tell what nor whom. Possibly he did not 
know.” 

“I rather suspect he did know. They were people, if T 
mistake not, belonging to that Irish castle, — Kil — Kil- 
somebody, or Kil-something.” 

“Was Walpole flirting there? was he going to marry one 
of them?” 

“Flirting, I take it, must have been the extent of the 
folly. Cecil often said he could not marry Irish. I have 
known men do it! You are aware, Maude,” and here he 
looked with uncommon gravity, “the penal laws have all 
been repealed.” 


“IN TOWN.” 


467 


“I was speaking of society, my Lord, not the statutes,” 
said she, resentfully, and half suspicious of a sly jest. 

“Had she money?” asked he, curtly. 

“I cannot tell; I know nothing of these people whatever! 
I remember something — it was a newspaper story — of 
a girl that saved Cecil’s life by throwing herself before him; 
a very pretty incident it was. But these things make no 
figure in a settlement; and a woman may be as bold as 
Joan of Arc and not have sixpence. Atlee says you can 
always settle the courage on the younger children.” 

“Atlee ’s an arrant scamp,” said my Lord, laughing. 
“He should have written some days since.” 

“ I suppose he is too late for the borough ; the Cradford 
election comes on next week?” Though there could not 
be anything more languidly indifferent than her voice in 
this question, a faint pinkish tinge flitted across her cheek, 
and left it colorless as before. 

“Yes, he has his address out, and there is a sort of com- 
mittee — certain licensed-victualler people — to whom he 
has been promising some especial Sabbath-breaking that 
they yearn after. I have not read it.” 

“T have; and it is cleverly written, and there is little more 
radical in it than we heard this very day at dinner. He 
tells the electors, ‘ You are no more bound to the support of 
an arni}^ or a navy, if you do not wisli to fight, than to 
maintain the College of Surgeons or Physicians, if you 
object to take physic.’ He says, ‘ To tell me that I, with 
eight shillings a week, have an equal interest in resisting 
invasion as your Lord Dido, with eighty^ thousand per 
annum, is simply nonsense. If you,’ cries he to one of his 
supporters, ‘ were to be offered your life by a highwayman 
on surrendering some few pence or halfpence you carried 
in your pocket, you do not mean to dictate what my Lord 
Marquis might do, who has got a gold watch and a pocket- 
ful of notes in his. And so I say once more, let the rich 
pay for the defence of what they value. You and I have 
nothing worth fighting for, and we will not fight. Then as 
to religion — ’ ” 

“Ob, spare me his theology! I can almost imagine it, 
Maude. I had no conception he was such a radical.” 


468 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“He is not really, my Lord; but he tells me that we must 
all go through this stage. It is, as he says, like a course 
of those waters whose benefit is exactly in proportion to the 
way they disagree with you at first. He even said, one 
evening before he went awa^^, ‘ Take my word for it. Lady 
Maude, we shall be burning these apostles of ballot and 
universal suffrage in effigy one day; but I intend to go 
beyond every one else in the mean while, else the rebound 
back will lose half its excellence. ’ ” 

“What is this?” cried he, as the servant entered vdth a 
telegram. “This is from Athens, Maude, and in cipher 
too. How are we to make it out? ” 

“Cecil has the key, my Lord. It is the diplomatic 
cipher. ” 

“Do you think you could find it in his room, Maude? It 
is possible this might be imminent.” 

“I shall see if he is at home,” said she, rising to ring the 
bell. The servant sent to inquire returned, saying that 
Mr. Walpole had dined abroad, and not returned since 
dinner. 

“I ’m sure you could find the book, Maude; and it is a 
small, square-shaped volume, bound in dark Russia leather, 
marked with F. O. on the cover.” 

• “I know the look of it well enough; but I do not fancy 
ransacking Cecil’s chamber.” 

“I do not know that I should like to await his return to 
read my despatch. I can just make out that it comes from 
Atlee.” 

“I suppose I had better go, then,” said she, reluctantly, 
as she rose and left the room. 

Ordering the butler to precede and show her the way. 
Lady Maude ascended to a story above that she usually 
inhabited, and found herself in a very spacious chamber, 
with an alcove, into which a bed fitted, the remaining space 
being arranged like an ordinary sitting-room. There 
were numerous chairs and sofas of comfortable form, a 
well-cushioned ottoman, smelling, indeed, villanously of 
tobacco, and a neat writing-table, with a most luxurious 
arrangement of shaded waxlights above it. 

A singularly well-executed photograph of a young and 


•'IN TOWN.” 


469 


very lovely woman, with masses of loose hair flowing over 
her neck and shoulders, stood on a little easel on the desk; 
and it was, strange enough, with a sense of actual relief, 
Maude read the word Titian on the frame. It was a copy 
of the great master’s picture in the Dresden Gallery, and of 
which there is a replica in the Barberini Palace at Rome; 
but still the portrait had another memory for Lady Maude, 
who quickly recalled the girl she had once seen in a crowded 
assembly, passing through a murmur of admiration that no 
conventionality could repress, and whose marvellous beauty 
seemed to glow with the homage it inspired. 

Scraps of poetry, copies of verses, changed and blotted 
couplets, were scrawled on loose sheets of paper on the 
desk; but Maude minded none of these, as she pushed them 
away to rest her arm on the table, while she sat gazing on 
the picture. 

The face had so completely absorbed her attention — so, 
to say, fascinated her — that when the servant had found 
the volume he was in search of, and presented it to her, she 
merely said, “Take it to my Lord,” and sat still, with her 
head resting on her hands, and her eyes fixed on the 
portrait. 

“There may be some resemblance; there may be, at 
least, what might remind people of ‘ the Laura,’ — so was it 
called; but who will pretend that she carried her head with 
that swing of lofty pride, or that her look could rival the 
blended majesty and womanhood we see here! I do not — 
I cannot believe it! ” 

“ What is it, Maude, that you will not or cannot believe? ” 
said a low voice; and she saw Walpole standing beside her. 

“Let me first excuse myself for being here,” said she, 
blushing. “I came in search of that little cipher-book to 
interpret a despatch that has just come. When Fenton 
found it, I was so engrossed by this pretty face that I have 
done nothing but gaze at it.” 

“And what was it that seemed so incredible as I came in? ” 

“Simply this, then, that any one should be so beautiful. 

“Titian seems to have solved that point; at least, Vasari 
tells us this was a portrait of a lady of the Guicciardini 
family.” 


470 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


“I know, — I know that,” said she, impatientl}^ ; “and 
we do see faces in which Titian or Velasquez have stamped 
nobility and birth as palpably as they have printed loveli- 
ness and expression. And such w'ere these women, daugh- 
ters in a long line of the proud Patricians who once ruled 
Pome.” 

“ And yet,” said he, slowly, “that portrait has its living 
counterpart.” 

“ I am aware of whom you speak; the awkward angular 
girl we all saw at Rome, and that young gentlemen called 
the Tizziana.” 

“ She is certainly no longer awkward nor angular now, 
if she were once so, which I do not remember. She is a 
model of grace and symmetry, and as much more beautiful 
than that picture as color, expression, and movement are 
better than a lifeless image.” 

“There is the fervor of a lover in your words, Cecil,” 
said she, smiling faintly. 

“It is not often I am so forgetful,” muttered he ; “ but so 
it is, our cousinship has done it all, Maude. One revels in 
expansiveness with his own, and I can speak to you as I 
cannot speak to another.” 

“ It is a great flattery to me.” 

“ In fact, I feel that at last I have a sister, — a dear and 
loving spirit who will give to true friendship those delightful 
traits of pity and tenderness, and even forgiveness, of which 
only the woman’s nature can know the needs.” 

Lady Maude rose slowly, without a word. Nothing of 
heightened color or movement of her features indicated 
anger or indignation ; and though Walpole stood with an 
affected submissiveness before her, he marked her closely. 

“ I am sure, Maude,” continued he, “ you must often 
have wished to have a brother.” 

“ Never so much as at this moment ! ” said she, calmly, — 
and now she had reached the door. “If I had had a 
brother, Cecil 'Walpole, it is possible I might have been 
spared this insult ! ” 

The next moment the door closed, and Walpole was alone. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 


atlee’s message. 

I AM right, Maude,” said Lord Danesbury, as his niece re- 
entered the drawing-room. “ This is from Atlee, who is at 
Athens ; but why there I cannot make out as yet. There 
are, according to the book, two explanations here. 491 
means a white dromedary, or the chief clerk, and B + 49 = 
12 stands for our Euvo}?^ in Greece, or a snuffer-dish.” 

“ Don’t you think, my Lord, it would be better for you to 
send this up to Cecil? He has just come in. He has had 
much experience of these things.” 

“You are quite right, Maude; let Fenton take it up and 
beg for a speedy transcript of it. I should like to see it at 
once ! ” 

While his Lordship waited for his despatch, he grumbled 
away about everything that occurred to him, and even, at 
last, about the presence of the very man, Walpole, who was 
at that same moment engaged in serving him. 

“Stupid fellow,” muttered he, “why does he ask for 
extension of his leave? Sta^dng in town here is only another 
name for spending monejG He’ll have to go out at last; 
better do it at once ! ” 

“ He may have his own reasons, my Lord, for delay,” 
said Maude, rather to suggest further discussion of the 
point. 

“He may think he has, I’ve no doubt. These small 
creatures have always scores of irons in the fire. So it was 
when I agreed to go to Ireland. There were innumerable 
fine things and clever things he was to do. There were 
schemes by which ‘ the Cardinal ’ was to be cajoled, and the 
whole Bar bamboozled. Every one was to have office 
dangled before his eyes, and to be treated so confidentially, 


472 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


and affectionately, under disappointment, that even when a 
man got nothing he would feel he had secured the regard of 
the Prime Minister ! If I took him out to Turkey to-morrow, 
he ’d never be easy till he had a plan ‘ to square ’ the Grand 
Vizier, and entrap Gortchakoff or Miliutin. These men 
don’t know that a clever fellow no more sfoes in search of 
rogueries than a fox-hunter looks out for stiff fences. You 
‘take them’ when they lie before you, that’s all.” This 
little burst of indignation seemed to have the effect on him 
of a little wholesome exercise, for he appeared to feel him- 
self better and easier after it. 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! ” muttered he, “ how pleasant one’s 
life might be if it were not for the clever fellows ! I mean, 
of course,” added he, after a second or two, “ the clever 
fellows who want to impress us with their cleverness.” 
Maude would not be entrapped or enticed into what might 
lead to a discussion. She never uttered a word, and he was 
silent. 

It was in the perfect stillness that followed that AValpole 
entered the room with the telegram in his hand, and advanced 
to where Lord Danesbury was sitting. 

“ I believe, my Lord, I have made out this message in such 
a shape as will enable yon to divine what it means. It runs 
thus : ‘ Athens, 5th, 12 o’clock. Have seen S , and con- 

ferred at length with him. His estimate of value oy Hiis 
price' — for the signs will mean either — ‘to my thinking 
enormous. Ilis reasonings certainly strong and not easy to 
rehut.' That may be possibly rendered, ‘ demands that might 
probably he reduced.' ‘ I leave to-day^ and shall he in Eng- 
land hy middle of next week. — Atlee.’ ” 

Walpole looked keenly at the other’s face as he read the 
paper, to mark what signs of interest and eagerness the 
tidings might evoke. There was, however, nothing to be 
read in those cold and quiet features. 

“I am glad he is coming back,” said he, at length. 
“Let us see: he can reach Marseilles by Monday, or even 
Sunday night. I don’t see wliy he should not be here 
Wednesday, or Thursday at farthest. By the way, Cecil, tell 
me something about our friend, — who is he ? ” 

“ Don’t know, my Lord.” 


ATLEE’S MESSAGE. 


• o 
O 


‘‘ Don’t know ! How came you acquainted with him? ” 

“ Met him at a country-house, where I happened to break 
my arm, and took advantage of this young fellow’s skill m 
surgery to engage his services to carry me to town. There ’s 
the whole of it.” 

“ Is he a surgeon? ” 

“ No, my Lord, any more than he is fifty other things, of 
which he has a smattering.” 

“ Has he any means, — any private fortune? ” 

‘‘ I suspect not.” 

“Who and what are his family? Are there Atlees in 
Ireland ? ” 

“There may be, my Lord. There was an Atlee, a 
college porter, in Dublin ; but I heard our friend say that 
they were only distantly related.” 

He could not help watching Lady Maude as he said this, 
and was rejoiced to see a sudden twitch of her lower lip as 
if in pain. 

“You evidently sent him over to me, then, on a very 
meagre knowledge of the man,” said his Lordship, rebuk- 
ingly. 

“ I believe, my Lord, I said at the time that I had by me 
a clever fellow, who wrote a good hand, could copy correctly, 
and was sufficient of a gentleman in liis manners to make 
intercourse with him easy and not disagreeable.” 

“A very guarded recommendation,” said Lad}" Maude, 
with a smile. 

“ AVas it not, Maude?” continued he, his eyes flashing 
with triumphant insolence. 

“/ found he could do more than copy a despatch, — I 
found he could write one. He replied to an article in tlie 
‘ Edinburgh ’ on Turke}", and I saw Iiim write it as I did not 
know there was another man but myself in England could 
have done.” 

“ Perhaps your Lordship had talked over the subject in 
his presence or with him ? ” 

“And if I had, sir! and if all his knowledge on a complex 
question was such as he could carry away from a random 
conversation, what a gifted dog he must be to sift the wheat 
from the chaff, — to strip a question of what were mere acci- 


474 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


dental elements, and to test a difficulty by its real qualities ! 
Atlee is a clever fellow, an able fellow, I assure you. That 
very telegram before us is a proof bow be can deal with a 
matter on wbicb instruction would be impossible.” 

“Indeed, my Lord!” said Walpole, with well-assumed 
innocence. 

“I am right glad to know be is coming borne. He must 
demolish that writer in the ‘ Revue des Deux Mondes ’ at 
once, — some unprincipled French blackguard, who has been 
put up to attack me by Tbouvenel I ” 

Would it have appeased bis Lordship’s wrath to know that 
the writer of this defamator}^ article was no other than Joe 
Atlee himself, and that the reply which was to “demolish 
it” was more than half written in his desk at that moment? 

“I shall ask,” continued my Lord, — “I shall ask him 
besides to write a paper on Ireland, and fiasco of yours, 
Cecil.” 

“ Much obliged, my Lord !” 

“Don’t be angry or indignant! A fellow with a neat, 
light hand like Atlee can, even under the guise of allegation, 
do more to clear you than scores of vulgar apologists. He 
can, at least, show that what our distinguished head of the 
Cabinet calls ‘the flesh-and-blood argument’ has its full 
weight with us in our government of Ireland, and that our 
bitterest enemies cannot say we have no sympathies with the 
nation we rule over.” 

“ I suspect, my Lord, that what you have so graciously 
called '‘iny fiasco^ is well-nigh forgotten by this time, and 
wiser policy would say, ‘Do not revive it.’” 

“ There ’s a great policy in sa3dng in ‘an article’ all that 
could be said in ‘ a debate,’ and showing, after all, how little 
it comes to. Even the feeble grievance-momi'ers grow 
ashamed at retailing the review and the newspapers ; but, 
what is better still, if the article be smartl}" written, they are 
sure to mistake the peculiarities of style for points in the 
argument. I have seen some splendid blunders of that kind 
when I sat in tlie Lower House ! I wish Atlee was in 
Parliament.” 

“ I am not aware that he can speak, 1113^ Lord.” 

“Neither am I; but I should risk a small bet on it. 


ATLEE’S MESSAGE. 


475 


He is a ready fellow, and the ready fellows are many- 
sided, eh, Maude?” Now, though his Lordship only asked 
for his niece’s concurrence in his own sage remark, Wal- 
pole affected to understand it as a direct appeal to her 
opinion of Atlee, and said, “ Is that your judgment of 
this gentleman, Maude?” 

‘‘ I have no prescription to measure the abilities of such 
men as Mr. Atlee.” 

“ You find him pleasant, witty, and agreeable, I hope?” 
said he, with a touch of sarcasm. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“With an admirable memory and great readiness for an 
ajivopos ? ” 

“Perhaps he has.” 

“ As a retailer of an incident they tell me he has no 
rival.” 

“I cannot say.” 

“ Of course not. I take it the fellow has tact enough 
not to tell stories here.” 

“ What is all that you are saying there?” cried his Lord- 
ship, to whom these few sentences were an “aside.” 
“Cecil is praising Mr. Atlee, my Lord,” said Maude, 
bluntly. 

“I did not know I had been, my Lord,” said he. “He 
belongs to that class of men who interest me very little.” 
“What class may that be?” 

“ The adventurers, my Lord. The fellows who make the 
campaign of life on the faith that they shall find their 
rations in some other man’s knapsack.” 

“Ha! indeed. Is that our friend’s line?” 

“Most undoubtedly, my Lord. I am ashamed to say 
that it was entirely my own fault if you are saddled with 
the fellow at all.” 

“I do not see the infliction — ” 

“I mean, my Lord, that, in a measure, I put him on 
you without very well knowing what it was that I did.” 
“Have you heard — do you know anything of the man 
that should inspire caution or distrust?” 

“ Well, these are strong words,” muttered he, hesitatingly. 
But Lady Maude broke in with a passionate tone, “ Don’t 


476 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


you see, my Lord, that he does not know anything to this 
person’s disadvantage, — that it is only iny cousin’s dip- 
lomatic reserve, — that commendable caution of his order 
suggests his careful conduct? Cecil knows no more of 
Atlee than we do.” 

“Perhaps not so much,” said Walpole, with an imper- 
tinent simper. 

“/ know,” said his Lordship, “that he is a monstrous 
clever fellow. He can find you the passage you want or 
the authority you are seeking for at a moment ; and when 
he writes he can be rapid and concise too.” 

“ He has many rare gifts, my Lord,” said Walpole, with 
the sly air of one who had said a covert impertinence. “ I 
am very curious to know what you mean to do with him.” 

“Mean to do with him? AVhy, what should I mean to 
do with him ? ” 

“ The very point I wish to learn. A protege, 1113^ Lord, 
is a parasitic plant, and you cannot de[)rive it of its double 
instincts, — to cling and to climb.” 

“ How witty m3" cousin has become since his sojourn 
in Ireland ! ” said Maude. 

Walpole flushed deeplv, and for a moment he seemed 
about to reply angrily ; but, with an effort, he controlled 
himself, and, turning towards the timepiece on the chimney, 
said, “How late! I could not have believed it was past 
one ! I hope, my Lord, 1 have made your despatch in- 
telligible?” 

“Yes, yes; I think so. Besides, he will be here in a 
day or two to explain.” 

“ I shall, then, say good-night, my Lord. Good-night, 
Cousin Maude.” But Lady Maude had already left the 
room unnoticed. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


WALPOLE ALONE. 

Once more in his own room, Walpole returned to the task 
of that letter to Nina Kostalergi, of which he had made 
nigh fifty draughts, and not one with which he was satisfied. 

It was not really very easy to do what he wished. He 
desired to seem a warm, rapturous, impulsive lover, who had 
no thought in life — no other hope or ambition — than the 
success of his suit. He sought to show that she had so 
enraptured and enthralled him that, until she consented 
to share his fortunes, he was a man utterly lost to life 
and life’s ambitions ; and — while insinuating what a tre- 
mendous responsibility she would take on herself if she 
should venture by a refusal of him to rob the world of 
those abilities that the age could ill spare — he also dimly 
shadowed the natural pride a woman ought to feel in 
knowing that she was asked to be the partner of such a 
man, and that one, for whom destiny in all likelihood re- 
served the highest rewards of public life, was then, with 
the full consciousness of what he was and what awaited 
him, ready to share that proud eminence with her, as a 
prince might have offered to share his throne. 

In spite of himself, in spite of all he could do, it was on 
this latter part of his letter liis pen ran most freely. He 
could condense his raptures, he could control in most praise- 
worthy fashion all the extravagances of passion and the 
imaginative joys of love, but, for the life of him, he could 
abate nothing of the triumphant ecstasy that must be the 
feeling of the w^oman w^ho had won him, — the passionate 
delight of her who should be his wife, and enter life the 
chosen one of his affection. 


478 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


It was wonderful how glibly he could insist on this to 
himself ; and, fancying for the moment that he was one of 
the outer world commenting on the match, say, “ Yes, let 
people decry the Walpole class how they might, — they are 
elegant, they are exclusive, they are fastidious, they are all 
tliat you like to call the spoiled children of fortune in their 
wit, their brilliancy, and their readiness, but they are the 
only men — the only men in the world who marry — we ’ll 
not say for ‘ love/ for the phi'ase is vulgar — but who marry 
to please themselves ! This girl had not a shilling. As to 
family, all is said when we say she was a Greek! Is there 
not something downright chivalrous in marrying such a 
woman? Is it the act of a worldly man?” 

He walked the room, uttering this question to himself 
over and over. Not exactly that he thought disparagingly 
of worldliness and material advantages, but he bad lashed 
himself into a false enthusiasm as to qualities which he 
thought had some special worshippers of their own, and 
whose good opinion might possibly be turned to profit some- 
how and somewhere, if he only knew how and where. It 
was a monstrous fine thing he was about to do ; that he felt. 
Where was there another man in his position would take a 
portionless girl and make her his wife? Cadets and cornets 
in light dragoon regiments did these things ; they liked their 
“bit of beauty;” and there was a sort of mock poetry 
about these creatures that suited that sort of tiling ; but for 
a man who wrote his letters from Brookes’s and whose din- 
ner invitations included all that was great in town, to stoo]> 
to such an alliance was as bold a defiance as one could throw 
at a world of self-seeking and conventionalit3\ 

“ That Emperor of the French did it.” cried he. “ I can- 
not recall to my mind another. He did the verv same thing 
I am going to do. To be sure he had the ‘ pull on me ’ in 
one point. As he said himself, ‘ I am a parvenu.’ Now, 1 
cannot go that far I I must justify 1113" act on other grounds, 
as I hope I can do,” cried he, after a pause ; while, with 
head erect and swelling chest, he went on: “I felt within 
me the place I yet should occupy. I knew — ay, knew — 
the prize that awaited me, and I asked myself, ‘ Do you see 
in any capital of PEirope one woman with whom you would 


WALPOLE ALONE. 


479 


like to share this fortune? Is there one sufficiently gifted 
and graceful to make her elevation seem a natural and fitting 
promotion, and herself appear the appropriate occupant of 
the station? 

“ ‘She is wonderfully beautiful: there is no doubt of it. 
Such beauty as they have never seen here in their lives ! 
Fanciful extravagances in dress and atrocious hair-dressing 
cannot disfigure her ; and by Jove ! she has tried both. 
And one has only to imagine that woman dressed and 
“ coiffeed,” as she might be, to conceive such a triumph as 
London has not witnessed for the century ! And I do long 
for such a triumph. If my Lord would only invite us here, 
w^ere it but for a week! We should be asked to Goreham 
and the Bexsmiths.’ My Lady never omits to invite a great 
beauty. It ’s her way to protest that she is still handsome, 
and not at all jealous. How are we to get ‘ asked ’ to Bruton 
Street?” asked he over and over, as though the sounds must 
secure the answer. “Maude will never permit it. The 
unlucky picture has settled that point. Maude will not suffer 
her to cross the threshold I But for the portrait I could 
bespeak my cousin’s favor and indulgence for a somewhat 
countrified young girl, dowdy and awkward. I could plead 
for her sood looks in that ad misericord larn fashion that 
disarms jealousy and enlists her generosity for an humble 
connection she need never see more of ! If I could only 
persuade Maude that I had done an indiscretion, and that I 
knew it, I should be sure of her friendship. Once make 
her believe that I have gone clean head over heels into a 
mesalliance, and our honeymoon here is assured. I wish I 
had not tormented her about Atlee. I wish with all my 
heart I had kept my impertinences to myself, and gone no 
further than certain dark hints about what I could say, if I 
were to be evil-minded. What rare wisdom it is not to fire 
away one’s last cartridge ! I suppose it is too late now. 
She ’ll not forgive me tliat disparagement before my uncle ; 
that is, if there be anything between herself and Atlee, a 
point which a few minutes will settle when I see them to- 
gether. It would not be very difficult to make Atlee regard 
me as his friend, and as one ready to aid him in this same 
ambition. Of course he is prepared to see in me the enemy 


480 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


of all his plans. What would he not give or say or do to 
find me his aider and abettor? Shrewd tactician as the 
fellow is, he will know all the value of having an accomplice 
within the fortress ; and it would be exactly from a man 
like myself he might be disposed to expect the most resolute 
opposition.” 

He thought for a long time over this. He turned it over 
and over in his mind, canvassing all the various benefits any 
line of action might promise, and starting every doubt or 
objection he could imagine. Nor was the thought extra- 
neous to his calculations that in forwarding Atlee’s suit 
to Maude he was exacting the heaviest “vendetta” for 
her refusal of himself. 

“There is not a woman in Europe,” he exclaimed, “less 
fitted to encounter small means and a small station, — to 
live a life of petty economies, and be the daily associate of 
a snob ; 

“ What the fellow may become at the end of the race, — 
what place he may win after years of toil and jobbery, I 
neither know nor care ! She will be an old woman by that 
time, and will have had space enough in the interval to 
mourn over her rejection of me. 1 shall be a minister, 
not impossibly at some court of the Continent, Atlee, to 
say the best, an Under-Secretary of State for something, 
or a Poor Law or Education Chief. There will be just 
enough of disparity in our stations to fill her woman’s 
heart with bitterness, — the bitterness of having backed 
tlie wrong man ! 

“ The unavailing regrets that beset us for not having taken 
the left-hand road in life instead of the right are our chief 
mental resources after forty, and they tell me that we men 
only know half the poignancy of these miserable recollec- 
tions. Women have a special adaptiveness for this kind of 
torture, — would seem actually to revel in it.” 

He turned once more to his desk and to the letter. Some- 
how he could make nothing of it. All the dangers that he 
desired to avoid so cramped his ingenuity that he could 
say little beyond platitudes ; and he thought with terror 
of her who was to read them. The scornful ccntempt 
with which she would treat sueh a letter was all before 
him. and he snatched up the paper and tore it in pieces. 


WALPOLE ALONE. 


481 


“It must not be done by writing,” cried he at last. “ Who 
is to guess for which of the fifty moods of such a woman 
a man’s letter is to be composed? What you could say now 
you dared not have written half an hour ago. What would 
have gone far to gain her love yesterday, to-day will show 
you the door ! It is only by consummate address and skill 
she can be approached at all, and, without her look and bear- 
ing, the inflections of her voice, her gestures, her ‘ pose,’ to 
guide you, it would be utter rashness to risk her humor.” 

He suddenly bethought him at this moment that he had 
many things to do in Ireland ere he left England. He had 
tradesmen’s bills to settle, and “traps” to be got rid of. 
“Traps” included furniture and books and horses and 
horse-gear, — details which at first he had hoped his friend 
Lockwood would have taken off his hands ; but Lockwood 
had only written him word that a Jew broker from Liver- 
pool would give him forty pounds for his house effects, and 
as for “the screws,” there was nothing but an auction. 

Most of us have known at some period or other of our 
lives what it is to suffer from the painful disparagement 
our chattels undergo when they become objects of sale ; 
but no adverse criticism of your bed or your book-case, 
your ottoman or your arm-chair, can approach the sense 
of pain inflicted by the impertinent comments on your 
horse. Every imputed blemish is a distinct personality, 
and you reject the insinuated spavin or the suggested 
splint as imputations on your honor as a gentleman. In 
fact, you are pushed into the pleasant dilemma of either 
being ignorant as to the defects of your beast, or wil- 
fully bent on an act of palpable dishonesty. When we 
remember that every confession a man makes of his unac- 
quaintance with matters “ horsey ” is, in English accep- 
tance, a count in the indictment against his claim to be 
thought a gentleman, it is not surprising that there will 
be men more ready to hazard their characters than their 
connoisseurship. 

“ I ’ll go over myself to Ireland,” said he at last ; “ and a 
week will do everything.” 


31 


CHAPTER LXVIIL 


THOUGHTS ON MARRIAGE. 

Lockwood was seated at his fireside in his quarters, the 
Upper Castle Yard, when Walpole burst in upon him unex- 
pectedly. 

“What! you here?” cried the Major. “Have you the 
courage to face Ireland again?” 

“I see nothing that should prevent my coming here. 
Ireland certainly cannot pretend to lay a grievance to my 
charge. ” 

“Maybe not. I don’t understand these things. I only 
know what people say in the clubs and laugh over at dinner- 
tables.” 

“I cannot affect to be very sensitive as to these Celtic 
criticisms, and I shall not ask you to recall them.” 

“They say that Danesbury got kicked out, all for }^our 
blunders I ” 

“Do they?” said Walpole, innocently. 

“Yes ; and they declare that if old Daney was n’t the most 
loyal fellow breathing, he ’d have thrown you over, and 
owned that the whole mess was of your own brewing, and 
that he had nothing to do with it.” 

“Do they, indeed, say that?” 

“That’s not half of it, for they have a story about a 
woman — seme woman you met down at Kilgobbin — who 
made you sing rebel songs and take a Fenian pledge, and 
give your word of honor that Donogan should be let 
escape.” 

“Is that all? ” 

“Isn’t it enough? A man must be a glutton for tom- 
foolery if he could not be satisfied with that.” 


THOUGHTS ON MARIIIAGE. 


483 


‘‘Perhaps you never heard that the chief of the Cabinet 
took a very different view of my Irish polic}\” 

“Irish policy?” cried the other, with lifted eyebrows. 

“I said ‘Irish policy,’ and repeat the words. Whatever 
line of political action tends to bring legislation into more 
perfect harmony with the instincts and impulses of a very 
peculiar people, it is no presumption to call a policy.” 
“With all my heart. Do you mean to deal with that old 
Liverpool rascal for the furniture?” 

“His offer is almost an insult.” 

“Well, you’ll be gratified to know he retracts it. He 
says now he’ll only give £35! And as for the screws, 
r>obbidge, of the Carbineers, will take them both for 
£50.” 

“Why, Lightfoot alone is worth the money! ” 

“Minus the sand-crack.” 

“I deny the sand-crack. She was pricked in the 
shoeing.” 

“Of course! I never knew a broken knee that was n’t got 
by striking the manger, nor a sand-crack that did n’t come 
of an awkward smith.” 

“What a blessing it would be if all the bad reputations in 
society could be palliated as pleasantly! ” 

“Shall I tell Bobbidge you take his offer? He wants 
an answer at once.” 

“My dear Major, don’t you know that the fellow who says 
that simply means to say, ‘ Don’t be too sure that I shall 
not change my mind ’ ? Look out that you take the ball at 
the hop ! ” 

“Lucky if it hops at all.” 

“Is that your experience of life?” said Malpole, 
inquiringly. 

“It is one of them. Will you take £50 for the screws?” 
“Yes; and as much more for the break and the dog-cart. 
I want every rap I can scrape together, Harry. I ’m going 
out to Guatemala.” 

“I heard that.” 

“Infernal place; at least, I believe, in climate, reptiles, 
fevers, assassination, it stands without a rival. 

“So they tell me.” 


484 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


‘‘It was the only thing vacant; and they rather affected 
a difficult}^ about giving it.” 

“So they do w^hen they send a man to the Gold Coast; 
and they tell the newspapers to say what a lucky dog he is.” 
“I can stand all that. What really kills me is giving a 
man the C. B. when he is just booked for some home of 
yellow fever.” 

“They do that, too,” gravel}^ observed the other, who was 
beginning to feel the pace of the conversation rather too fast 
for him. “Don’t you smoke?” 

“I ’m rather reducing myself to half batta in tobacco. 
I ’ve thoughts of marrying.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Why? It ’s not wrong.” 

“No, perhaps not; but it ’s stupid.” 

“Come, now, old fellow, life out there in the tropics is 
not so jolly all alone! Alligators are interesting creatures, 
and chetahs are pretty pets ; but a man wants a little com- 
panionship of a more tender kind; and a nice girl who 
would link her fortunes with one’s own, and help one 
through the sultry hours, is no bad thing.” 

“The nice girl wouldn’t go there.” 

“I ’m not so sure of that. With vour great knowledge of 
life you must know that there has been a glut in ‘ the nice 
girl ’ market these years back. Prime lots are sold for a 
song, occasionally, and first-rate samples sent as far as 
Calcutta. The truth is, the fellow who looks like a real 
buyer may have the pick of the fair, as they call it here.” 
“So he ought,” growled out the Major. 

“ 1 he speech is not a gallant one. You are scarcely com- 
plimentary to the ladies, Lockwood.” 

“It was you that talked of a woman like a cow, or a sack 
of corn, not I.” 

“I employed an illustration to answer one of your own 
arguments.” 

“Who is she to be?” bluntly asked the Major. 

“I ’ll tell you whom I mean to ask, for I have not put the 
question yet.” 

A long, fine whistle expressed the other’s astonishment. 
“And are you so sure she ’ll say yes? ” 


THOUGHTS ON MARRIAGE. 


485 


“ I have iio other assurance than the conviction that a 
woman might do worse.” 

“Humph! perhaps she might. I ’m not quite certain ; but 
who is she to be? ” 

“Do you remember a visit we made together to a certain 
Kilgobbin Castle?” 

“To be sure I do. A rum old ruin it was.” 

“Do you remember two young ladies we met there?” 
“Perfectly. Are you going to marry both of them?” 
“My intention is to propose to one, and I imagine I need 
not tell you which? ” 

“Naturally, the Irish girl. She saved your life — ” 

“ Pray let me undeceive you in a double error. It is not 
the Irish girl; nor did she save my life.” 

“Perhaps not; but she risked her own to save yours. 
You said so yourself at the time.” 

“AVe T1 not discuss the point now. I hope I feel duly 
grateful for the young lady’s heroism; though it is not 
exactly my intention to record my gratitude in a special 
license.” 

“A very equivocal sort of repayment,” grumbled out 
Lockwood. 

“You are epigrammatic this evening. Major.” 

“So, then, it’s the Greek you mean to marry?” 

“It it is the Greek I mean to ask.” 

“All right. I hope she T1 take 3"Ou. I think, on the 
whole, you suit each other. If I were at all disposed to 
that sort of bondage, I don’t know a girl I ’d rather risk the 
road with than the Irish cousin. Miss Kearney.” 

“She is very pretty, exceedingly obliging, and has most 
winning manners.” 

O 

“She is good-tempered, and she is natural; the two best 
things a woman can be.” 

“AVhy not come down along with me and try your luck?” 
“AVhen do j'OU go? ” 

“By tl>e 10.30 train to-morrow. I shall arrive at Moate 
by four o’clock, and reach the castle to dinner.” 

“They expect you?” 

“Onl}^ so far that I have telegraphed a line to say I ’m 
going down to bid ‘ Good-bye ’ before I sail for Guatemala. 


486 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


I don’t suspect they know where that is; but it’s enough 
when they understand it is far away.” 

“I ’ll go with you.” 

“Will you, really?” 

“ I will. I ’ll not say on such an errand as your own, 
because that requires a second thought or two ; but I ’ll 
reconnoitre, Master Cecil, — I ’ll reconnoitre.” 

‘‘I suppose you know there is no money.” 

“I should think money most unlikely in such a quarter; 
and it ’s better she should have none than a small fortune. 
I ’m an old whist-player; and when I play dummy there ’s 
nothing I hate more than to see two or three small trumps 
in my partner’s hand.” 

“I imagine you ’ll not be distressed in that way here.” 

“I ’ve got enough to come through with; that is, the thing 
can be done if there be no extravagances.” 

“Does one want for more?” cried Walpole, theatrically. 
“I don’t know that. If it were only ask and have, I 
should like to be tempted.” 

“I have no such ambition. I firmly believe that the 
moderate limits a man sets to his dailv wants constitute the 
real liberty of his intellect and his intellectual nature.” 
“Perhaps I’ve no intellectual nature, then,” growled out 
Lockwood; “for I know how 1 should like to spend fifteen 
thousand a year. I suppose I shall have to live on as many 
hundreds.” 

“It can be done.” 

“Perhaps it may. Have another weed? ” 

“No. I told you already I have begun a tobacco refor- 
mation.” 

“Does she object to the pipe?” 

“I cannot tell 3^011. The fact is, Lockwood, my future 
and its fortunes are just as uncertain as }"Our own. This 
day week will probably have decided the destiny of each 
of us.” 

“To our success, then! ” cried the Major, filling both their 
glasses. 

“To onr success! ” said Walpole, as he drained his, and 
placed it upside down on the table. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


AT KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 

The “Blue Goat ” at Moate was destined once more to re- 
ceive the same travellers whom we presented to our readers 
at a very early stage of this history. 

“Not much change here,” cried Lockwood, as he strode 
into the little sitting-room and sat down. “I miss the old 
fellow’s picture, that’s all.” 

“Ah! by the way,” said Walpole to the landlord, “you 
had my Lord Kilgobbin’s portrait up there the last time I 
came through here.” 

“Yes, indeed, sir,” said the man, smoothing down his 
hair and looking apologetically. “But the Goats and my 
Lord, who was the Buck Goat, got into a little disagree- 
ment, and they sent away his picture, and his Lordship 
retired from the club ; and — and — that was the way 
of it.” 

“A heavy blow to your town, I take it,” said the Major, 
as he poured out his beer. 

“Well, indeed, your honor, I won’t say it was. You 
see, sir, times is changed in Ireland. We don’t care as 
much as we used about the ‘ neighboring gentry,’ as they 
called them once; and as for the Lord, there! he doesn’t 
spend a hundred a year in Moate.” 

“How is that? ” 

“They get what they want by rail from Dublin, your 
honor; and he might as well not be here at all.” 

“Can we have a car to carry us over to the castle?” 
asked AYalpole, who did not care to hear more of local 
grievances. 

“Sure, isn’t my Lord’s car waiting for you since two 
o’clock!” said the host, spitefully, for he was not concil- 


488 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


iated by a courtesy that was to lose him a fifteen-shilling 
fare. “Not that there ’s much of a horse between the 
shafts, or that old Daly himself is an elegant coachman,” 
continued the host; “but they ’re ready in the yard when 
you want them.” 

The travellers had no reason to delay them in their pres- 
ent quarters, and, taking their places on the car, set out for 
the castle. 

“I scarcely thought when I last drove this road,” said 
Walpole, “that the next time I was to come should be on 
such an errand as my present one.” 

“Humph!” ejaculated the other. “Our noble relative 
that is to be does not shine in equipage. That beast is 
dead lame.” 

“If we had our deserts, Lockwood, we should be drawn 
by a team of doves, with the god Cupid on the box.” 

“I’d rather have two posters and a yellow post-chaise.” 

A drizzling rain that now began to fall interrupted all 
conversation, and each sunk back into his own thoughts 
for the rest of the way. 

Lord Kilgobbin, with his daughter at his side, watched 
the car from the terrace of the castle as it slowly wound its 
way along the bog road. 

“As well as I can see, Kate, there is a man on each side 
of the car,” said Kearney, as he handed his field-glass to 
his daughter. 

“Yes, papa, I see there are two travellers.” 

“And I don’t well know wdw there should be even one! 
There was no such great friendship between us that he need 
come all this way to bid us good-bye.” 

“Considering the mishap that befell him here, it is a 
mark of good feeling to desire to see us all once more, don’t 
you think so ? ” 

“May be so,” muttered he, drearily. “At all events, it ’s 
not a pleasant house he ’s coming to. Y'oung O’Shea there, 
upstairs, just out of a fever; and old Miss Betty, that may 
arrive any moment.” 

“There ’s no question of that. She says it would be ten 
days or a fortnight before she is equal to the journey.” 
‘Heaven grant it! — hem — I mean that she’ll be stronsj 


AT KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 


489 


enough for it by that time. At all events, if it is the same 
as to our fine friend, Mr. Walpole, I wish he ’d have taken 
his leave of us in a letter.” 

“It is something new, papa, to see you so inhospitable.” 
“But I am not inhospitable, Kitty. Show me the good 
fellow that would like to pass an evening with me and think 
me good company, and he shall have the best saddle of 
mutton and the raciest bottle of claret in the house. But 
it ’s only mock hospitality to be entertaining the man that 
only comes out of courtesy and just stays as long as good 
manners oblige him.” 

“1 do not know' that I should undervalue politeness, 
especially when it takes the shape of a recognition.” 

“Well, be it so,” sighed he, almost drearily. “If the 
young gentleman is so w'armly attached to us all that he 
cannot tear himself aw'ay till he has embraced us, I suppose 
there ’s no help for it. Where is Nina? ” 

“She w'as reading to Gorman w^hen I saw her. She had 
just relieved Dick, who has gone out for a w'alk.” 

“A jolly house for a visitor to come to!” cried he, 
sarcastically. 

“We are not very gay or lively, it is true, papa; but it 
is not unlikely that the spirit in which our guest comes here 
will not need much jollity.” 

“I don’t take it as a kindness for a man to bring me his 
depression and his low' spirits. I ’ve alwa^'S more of my 
ow'ii than I know w^hat to do with. Two sorrow's never 
made a joy, Kitty.” 

“There! they are lighting the lamps,” cried she, suddenly. 
“I don’t think they can be more than three miles away.” 
“Have you rooms ready, if there be tw'o coming? 

“Yes, papa, Mr. Walpole wdll have his old quarters; and 
the stag-room is in readiness if there be another guest.” 

“I ’ci like to have a house as big as the royal barracks, 
and every room of it occupied! ” cried Kearney, with a 
mellow ring in his voice. “They talk of society and pleas- 
ant company; but for real enjoyment there’s nothing to 
compare with what a man has under his ow'ii roof! No 
claret ever tastes so good as the decanter he circulates him- 
self. I was low enough half an hour ago; and now' the 


490 


LOUD KILGOBBIN. 


mere thought of a couple of fellows to diue with me cheers 
me up and warms my heart! 1 ’ll give them the green seal, 
Kitty; and I don’t know there’s another house in the 
county could put a bottle of ’46 claret before them.” 

“So you shall, papa. I’ll go to the cellar myself and 
fetch it.” 

Kearney hastened to make the moderate toilet he called 
dressing for dinner, and was only finished when his old ser- 
vant informed him that two gentlemen had arrived and gone 
up to their rooms. 

“I wish it was two dozen had come,” said Kearney, as he 
descended to the drawing-room. 

“It is Major Lockwood, papa,” cried Kate, entering 
and drawing him into a window recess; “the Major Lock- 
wood that was here before has come with Mr. Walpole. I 
met him in the hall while I had the basket with the wine in 
my hand; and he was so cordial and glad to see me you 
cannot think.” 

“He knew that green wax, Kitty. He tasted that ‘ bin ’ 
when he was here last.” 

“Perhaps so; but he certainly seemed overjoyed at 
something.” 

“Let me see,” muttered he; “wasn’t he the big fellow 
with the long moustaches? ” 

“A tall, very good-looking man; dark as a Spaniard, and 
not unlike one.” 

“To 'be sure, to be sure. I remember him well. He 
was a capital shot with the pistol, and he liked his wine. 
By the way, Nina did not take to him.” 

“How do you remember that, papa?” said she, archly. 

“If I don’t mistake, she told me so, or she called him a 
brute, or a savage, or some one of those things a man is 
sure to be when a woman discovers he will not be her 
slave.” 

Nina, entering at the moment, cut short all rejoinder; and 
Kearney came forward to meet her, with his hand out. 

“Shake out your lower courses, and let me look at you,” 
cried he, as he walked round her admiringly. “Upon my 
oath, it’s more beautiful than ever you are! I can guess 
what a fate is reserved for those dandies from Dublin.” 


AT KILGOBBIN CASTLE. 


491 


“Do you like my dress, sir? Is it becoming?” asked 
she. 

“Becoming it is; but I ’m not sure whether I like it.” 
“And how is that, sir? ” 

“I don’t see how, with all that floating gauze and swelling 
lace, a man is to get an arm round you at all — ” 

“I cannot perceive the necessity, sir;” and the insolent 
toss of her head, more forcibly even than her words, re- 
sented such a possibility. 


CHAPTER LXX. 


atlee’s return. 

AYhen Atlee arrived at Bruton Street, the welcome that met 
him was almost cordial. Lord Daiiesbury — not very 
demonstrative at any time — received him wdth warmth, 
and Lady Maude gave him her hand wdth a sort of signifi- 
cant cordiality that overwhelmed him with delight. The 
climax of his enjoyment was, however, reached when Lord 
Danesbury said to him, “AVe are glad to see }^ou at home 
again.” 

This speech sunk deep into his heart, and he never wearied 
of repeating it over and over to himself. When he reached 
his room, where his luggage had already preceded him, and 
found his dressing articles laid out, and all the little cares 
and attentions wLich well-trained servants understand 
awaiting him, he muttered, with a tremulous sort of ecstas}", 
“This is a very glorious way to come home! ” 

The rich furniture of the room, the many appliances of 
luxury and ease around him, the sense of rest and quiet, so 
delightful after a journey, all appealed to him as he threw 
himself into a deep-cushioned chair. He cried aloud, 
“Home! home! Is this, indeed, home? What a different 
thing from that mean life of privation and penury I have 
always been associating with this word, — from that per- 
petual struggle with debt, — the miserable conflict that went 
on through every day, till not an action, not a thought, 
remained untinctured with money; and, if a momentary 
pleasure crossed the path, the cost of it as certain to tarnish 
all the enjoyment! Such was the only home I have ever 
known, or, indeed, imagined.” 

It is said that the men who have emerged from very 
humble conditions in life, and occupy places of eminence 


ATLEE’S RETURN. 


493 


or promise, are less overjoyed at this change of fortune than 
impressed with a kind of resentment towards the destiny 
that once had subjected them to privation. Their feeling 
is not so much joy at the present as discontent with the 
past. 

“Why was J not born to all this?’’ cried Atlee, indig- 
nantly. “ What is there in me, or in my nature, that this 
should be a usurpation? Why was I not schooled at PAon, 
and trained at Oxford? Why was I not bred up amongst 
the men whose competitor I shall soon find myself? Why 
have 1 not their ways, their instincts, their watchwords, 
their pastimes, and even their prejudices, as parts of my 
very nature? Why am I to learn these late in life, as a 
man learns a new language, and never fully catches the 
sounds or the niceties? Is there any competitorship 1 
should flinch from, any rivalry I should fear, if 1 had but 
started fair in the race?” 

This sense of having been hardly treated by fortune at the 
outset, marred much of his present enjoyment, accompanied 
as it was by a misgiving that, do what he might, that early 
inferiority would cling to him like some rag of a garment 
that he must wear over all his “braverie,” proclaiming, as 
it did to the world, “This is from what I sprung originally.” 

It was not by any exercise of vanity that Atlee knew he 
talked better, knew more, was wittier and more ready-witted 
than the majority of men of his age and standing. The 
consciousness that he could do scores of things they could 
not do was not enough, tarnished as it was by a misgiv- 
ing that, by some secret mystery of breeding, some free- 
masonry of fashion, he was not one of them, and that this 
awkward fact was suspended over him for life, to arrest 
his course in the hour of success, and balk him at the very 
moment of victory. 

“Till a man’s adoption amongst them is ratified by a mar- 
riage, he is not safe,” muttered he. “Till the fate and 
future of one of their own is embarked in the same boat with 
himself, they ’ll not grieve over his shipwreck.” 

Could he but call Lady Maude his wife! Was this pos- 
sible ? There were classes in which affections went for much ; 
where there was such a thing as engaging these same affec' 


494 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


tions, and actually pledging all hope of happiness in life on 
the faith of such engagements. These, it is true, were the 
sentiments that prevailed in humbler walks of life, amongst 
those lowly-born people whose births and marriages were 
not chronicled in gilt-bound volumes. The Lady Maudes 
of the world, whatever imprudences they might permit them- 
selves, certainly never “fell in love.” Condition and place 
in the world were far too serious things to be made the sport 
of sentiment. Love was a very proper thing in three- volume 
novels, and Mr. Mudie drove a roaring trade in it; but in 
the well-bred world, immersed in all its engagements, triple- 
deep in its projects and promises for pleasure, where was 
the time, where the opportunity, for this pleasant fooling? 
That luxurious selfishness in which people delight to plan a 
future life, and agree to think that they have in themselves 
what can confront narrow fortune and difficulty, — these had 
no place in the lives of persons of fashion! In that coquetry 
of admiration and flattery which in the language of slang 
is called spooning, young persons occasionally got so far 
acquainted that they agreed to be married, pretty much as 
they agreed to waltz or to polka together; but it was always 
with the distinct understanding that they were doing what 
mammas would approve of, and family solicitors 'of good 
conscience could ratify. No tyrannical sentimentality, no 
uncontrollable gush of sympathy, no irresistible convic- 
tions about all future happiness being dependent on one 
issue, overbore these natures, and made them insensible to 
title and rank and station and settlements. 

In one word, Atlee, after due consideration, satisfied his 
mind that, though a man might gain the affections of the 
doctor’s daughter or the squire’s niece, and so establish 
him as an element of her happiness that friends would over- 
look all differences of fortune, and try to make some sort of 
compromise with fate, — all these were unsuited to the 
sphere in which Lady Maude moved. It was, indeed, a 
realm where this coinage did not circulate. To enable him 
to address her with any prospect of success, he should be 
able to show, ay, and to show argumentatively, that she 
was, in listening to him, about to do something eminently 
prudent and worldly-wise. She must, in short, be in a posi- 


495 


ATLEE’S RETURN. 

tion to show her friends and “ society ” that she had not com- 
mitted herself to anything wilful or foolish, — had not been 
misled by a sentiment or betrayed by a sympathy; and that 
the well-bred questioner who inquired, “Why did she marry 
Atlee?” should be met by an answer satisfactory and 
convincing. 

In the various ways he canvassed the question and re= 
volved it with himself, there was one consideration which, 
if I were at all concerned for his character for gallantry, I 
should be reluctant to reveal; but, as 1 feel little interest on 
this score, I am free to own was this. He remembered 
that as Lady Maude was no longer in her first youth, there 
was reason to suppose she might listen to addresses now 
which, some years ago, would have met scant favor in her 
eyes. 

In the matrimonial Lloyd’s, if there were such a body, 
she would not have figured A No. 1 ; and the risks of enter- 
ing the conjugal state have probably called for an extra 
premium. Atlee attached great importance to this fact; 
but it was not the less a matter which demanded the greatest 
delicacy of treatment. He must know it, and he must not 
know it. He must see that she had been the belle of many 
seasons, and he must pretend to regard her as fresh to the 
ways of life, and new to society. He trusted a good deal 
to his tact to do this; for w^hile insinuating to her the pos- 
sible future of such a man as himself, the high place, and 
the great rewards w^hich in all likelihood awaited him, there 
would come an opportune moment to suggest that to any 
one less gifted, less conversant with knowledge of life than 
herself, such reasonings could not be addressed. 

“It could never be,” cried he, aloud. “To some miss 
fresh from the schoolroom and the governess, I could dare 
to talk a language only understood by those who have been 
conversant with high questions, and moved in the society of 
thoughtful talkers.” 

There is no quality so dangerous to eulogize as experi- 
ence, and Atlee thought long over this. One determination 
or another must speedily be come to. If there was no like- 
lihood of success with Lady Maude, he must not lose his 
chances with the Greek girl. Ihe sum, whatever it might 


496 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


be, which her father should obtain for his secret papers, 
would constitute a very respectable portion. “I have a 
stronger reason to fight for liberal terms,” thought he, than 
the Prince Kostalergi imagines; and, fortunately, that fine 
parental trait, that noble desire to make a provision for his 
child, stands out so clearly in my brief, 1 should be a sorry 
advocate if I could not employ it.” 

In the few words that passed between Pord Danesbury and 
himself on arriving, he learned that there was but little 
chance of winning his election* for the borough. Indeed, 
he bore the disappointment jauntily and good-humoredly. 
That great philosophy of not attaching too much importance 
to any one thing in life, sustained him in every venture. 
“Bet on the field; never back the. favorite,” was his formula 
for inculcating the wisdom of trusting to the general game 
of life, rather than to any particular emergency. “Back 
the field,” he would say, “and you must be unlucky, or 
you ’ll come right in the long run.” 

They dined that day alone, — that is, they were but three 
at table; and Atlee enjoyed the unspeakable pleasure of 
hearing them talk with the freedom and unconstraint people 
only indulge in when “at home.” Lord Danesbury dis- 
cussed confidential questions of political importance, told 
how his colleagues agreed in this, or differed on that; ad- 
verted to the nice points of temperament which made one 
man hopeful and that other despondent or distrustful; he 
exposed the difficulties they had to meet in the Commons, 
and where the Upper House was intractable; and even went 
so far in his confidences as to admit where the criticisms of 
the Press were felt to be damaging to the administration. 

“The real danger of ridicule,” said he, “is not the pun- 
gency of the satire; it is the facility with which it is remem- 
bered and circulated. The man who reads the strong leader 
in the ‘ Times ’ may have some general impression of being 
convinced, but he cannot repeat its arguments or quote its 
expressions. The pasquinade or the squib gets a hold on 
the mind, and in its very drollery will insure its being 
retained there.” 

Atlee was not a little gratified to hear that this opinion 
was delivered apropos to a short paper of his own, whose 


ATLEE’S RETURN. 


497 


witty sarcasms on the Cabinet were exciting great amuse- 
ment in town, and much curiosity as to the writer. 

“He has not seen ‘The Whitebait Dinner’ yet,” said 
Lady Maude; “the cleverest jeu-d’esprit of the day.” 

“ Ay, or of any day,” broke in Lord Danesbury. “PAen 
the ‘ Anti- Jacobin ’ has nothing better. The notion is this. 
The Devil happens to be taking a holiday, and he is in town 
just at the time of the Ministerial dinner, and, hearing that 
he is at Claridge’s, the Cabinet, ashamed at the little atten- 
tion bestowed on a crowned head, ask him down to Green- 
wich. He accepts, and to kill an hour, — 

‘ lie strolled down, of course, 

To the Parliament House, 

And heard how England stood, 

As she has since the Flood, 

Without ally or friend to assist her. 

But, while every persuasion 
Was full of invasion 
From Russian or Prussian, 

Yet the only discussion 

Was, how should a Gentleman marry his sister ? ' ” 

“Can you remember anymore of it, my Lord?” asked 
Atlee, on whose table at that moment were lying the proof- 
sheets of the production. 

“ Maude has it all somewhere. You must find it for him, 
and let him guess the writer — if he can.” 

“ What do the clubs say?” asked Atlee. 

“ 1 think they are divided between Orlop and Bouverie. 
I ’m told that the Garrick people say it ’s Sankey, a young 
fellow in F. O.” 

“ You should see Aunt Jerningham about it, Mr. Atlee, — 
her eagerness is driving her half mad.” 

“ Take him out to ‘ Lebanon ’ on Sunday,” said my Lord ; 
and Lady Maude agreed with a charming grace and courtesy, 
adding as she left the room, “ So remember you are engaged 
for Sunday.” 

Atlee bowed as he held the door open for her to pass out, 
and threw into his glance what he desired might mean homage 
and eternal devotion. 

“Now then, for a little quiet confab,” said my Lord. 


498 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Let me hear what you mean by your telegram. All I 
could make out was that you found our man.” 

“Yes; I found him, and passed several hours in his 
company.” 

“Was the fellow very much out at elbows, as usual? ” 

“ No, my Lord, — thriving, and likely to thrive. He has 
just been named Envoy to the Ottoman Court.” 

“ Bah ! ” was all the reply his incredulity could permit. 

“ True, 1 assure you. Such is the estimation he is held in 
at Athens, the Greeks declare he has not his equal. You 
are aware that his name is Spiridion Kostalergi, and he 
claims to be Prince of Delos.” 

“ With all my heart. Our Hellenic friends never quarrel 
over their nobility. There are titles and to spare for every 
one. Will he give us our papers? ” 

“ Yes ; but not without high terms. He declares, in fact, 
my Lord, that you can no more return to the Bosphorus 
without him^ than he can go there without you.'’ 

“ Is the fellow insolent enough to take this ground?” 

“ That is he. In fact, he presumes to talk as your Lord- 
ship’s colleague, and hints at the several points in which you 
may act in concert.” 

“ It is very Greek all this.” 

“ His terms are ten thousand pounds in cash, and — ” 

“ There, there, that will do. Why not fifty, — why not a 
hundred thousand ? ” 

“ He affects a desire to be moderate, my Lord.” 

“ I hope you withdrew at once after such a proposal? I 
trust you did not prolong the interview a moment longer? ” 

“ I arose, indeed, and declared that the mere mention of 
such terms was like a refusal to treat at all.” 

“ And you retired? ” 

“I gained the door, when he detained me. He has, I 
must admit, a marvellous plausibility ; for, though at first he 
seemed to rely on the all-importance of these documents to 
your Lordship, how far they would compromise you in the 
past and impede you for the future, how they would impair 
your influence, and excite the animosity of many who were 
freely canvassed and discussed in them, yet he abandoned 
all that at the end of our interview, and restricted himself to 


ATLEE’S RETURN. 


499 


the plea that the sum, if a large one, could not be a serious 
difficulty to a great English noble, and would be the crown- 
ing fortune of a poor Greek gentleman, who merely desired 
to secure a marriage portion for his only daughter.” 

“ And you believed this? ” 

“ I so far believed him that I have his pledge in writing 
that when he has your Lordship’s assurance that you will 
comply with his terms, — and he only asks that much, — he 
will deposit the papers in the hands of the Minister at 
Athens, and constitute your Lordship the trustee of the 
amount in favor of his daughter, the sum only to be paid 
on her marriage.” 

“ How can it possibly concern me that he has a daughter, 
or why should I accept such a trust?” 

“ The proposition had no other meaning than to guarantee 
the good faith on which his demand is made.” 

“I don’t believe in the daughter.” 

“ That is, that there is one?” 

“No. I am persuaded that she has no existence. It is 
some question of a mistress or a dependant ; and if so, the 
sentimentality which would seem to have appealed so for- 
cibly to you fails at once.” 

“That is quite true, my Lord; and I cannot pretend to 
deny the weakness you accuse me of. There may be no 
daughter in the question.” 

“Ah! You begin to perceive now that you surrendered 
your convictions too easily, Atlee. You failed in that ele- 
ment of ‘restless distrust’ that Talleyrand used to call the 
temper of the diplomatist.” 

“It is not the first time I have had to feel I am your 
Lordship’s inferior.” 

“ d/y education was not made in a day, Atlee. It need be 
no discouragement to you that you are not as long-sighted as 
I am. No, no; rely upon it, there is no daughter in tlie 
case.” 

“ With that conviction, my Lord, what is easier than to 
make your adhesion to his terms conditional on his truth? 
You as:ree, if his statement be in all respects verified.” 

“ Which implies that it is of the least consequence to me 
wdiether the fellow has a daughter or not?” 


500 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


It is SO only as the guarantee of the man’s veracity.” 

“ And shall 1 give ten thousand pounds to test that ? ” 

No, my Lord ; but to repossess yourself of what, in very 
doubtful hands, might prove a great scandal and a great 
disaster.” 

“ Ten thousand pounds ! ten thousand pounds ! ” 

“ Why not eight — perhaps, five? 1 have not your Lord- 
ship’s great knowledge to guide me, and I cannot tell when 
these men really mean to maintain their ground. From my 
own very meagre experiences, I should say he was not a very 
tractable individual. He sees some promise of better fortune 
before him, and like a genuine gambler — as I hear he is — 
he determines to back his luck.” 

“Ten thousand pounds!” muttered tlie other, below his 
breath. 

“As regards the money, my Lord, I take it that these 
same papers were documents which more or less concerned 
the public service — they were in no sense personal, although 
meant to be private ; and altliough in my ignorance 1 may 
be mistaken, it seems to me that the fund devoted to secret 
services could not be more fittingly appi’opriated than in 
acquiring documents whose publicity could prove a national 
injury.” 

“ Totally wrong, — utterly wrong. The money could never 
be paid on such a pretence ; the ‘ Office ’ would not sanction 
— no Minister would dare to advise it.” 

“Then I come back to my original suggestion. I should 
give a conditional acceptance, and treat for a reduction of 
the amount.” 

“ You would say five?” 

“ T opine, my Lord, eight w^ould have more chance of 
success.” 

“ You are a warm advocate for vour client,” said his 
Lordship, laughing ; and though the shot was merely a ran- 
dom one, it went so true to the mark that Atlee flushed up 
and became crimson all over. “ Don’t mistake me, Atlee,” 
said his Lordship, in a kindly tone. “ I know thoroughly 
how my interests, and only mine, have any claim on your 
attention. This Greek fellow must be less than nothing to 
you. Tell me now' frankly, do you believe one w’ord he has* 
told you? Is he really named as Minister to Turkey?” 


ATLEE’S RETURN. 


501 


“ That much I can answer for, — he is.” 

“ AVhat of the daughter, — is there a daughter? ” 

“ 1 suspect there may be. However, the matter admits of 
an easy proof. He has given me names and addresses in 
Ireland of relatives with whom she is living. Now, I am 
thoroughly conversant with Ireland, and, by the indications 
in my power, I can pledge myself to learn all, not only about 
the existence of this person, but of such family circumstances 
as might serve to guide you in your resolve. Time is what 
is most to be thought of here. Kostalergi requires a prompt 
answ^er, — first of all, jmur assurance that you will support 
his claim to be received by the Sultan. AYell, my Lord, if 
you refuse, Mouravieff will do it. You know better than me 
how impolitic it might be to throw these Turks more into 
Russian influence — ” 

“ Never mind Atlee. Don’t distress yourself about 
the political aspect of the question.” 

“ I promised a telegraphic line to say, would you or would 
you not sustain his nomination. It was to be yes or no, — 
not more.” 

“Say, yes. I’ll not split hairs about what Greek best 
represents his nation. Say, yes.” 

“ I am sure, my Lord, you do wisely. He is evidently a 
man of ability, and, I suspect, not morally much worse than 
his countrymen in general.” 

“Say, yes; and then,” — he mused for some minutes 
before he continued, — “and then run over to Ireland, — 
learn something, if you can, of this girl, with whom she is 
staying, in what position, what guarantees, if any, could be 
had for the due employment and destination of a sum of 
money, in the event of our agreeing to pay it. Mind, it is 
simply as a gauge of the fellow’s veracity that this story 
has any value for us. Daughter or no daughter, is not of 
any moment to me ; but I want to test the problem, — can he 
tell one w^ord of truth about anything? You are shrewd 
enough to see the bearing of this narrative on all he has told 
yoii^ — where it sustains, where it accuses him.” 

“ Shall I set out at once, my Lord? ” 

“No. Next week will do. We’ll leave him to ruminate 
over your telegram. That will show him we have entertained 


502 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


his project ; and he is too practised a hand not to know the 
value of an opened negotiation. Cradock and Mellish and 
one or two more wish to talk with }^ou about Turkey. 
Graydon, too, has some questions to ask you about Suez. 
They dine here on Monday. Tuesday we are to have the 
Hargraves and Lord Mashain, and a couple of Under-Secre- 
taries of State; and Lady Maude will tell us about Wednes- 
day, for all these people, Atlee, are coining to meet yon. 
The newspapers have so persistently been keeping you before 
the world, every one wants to see you.” 

Atlee might have told his Lordship — but he did not — 
by what agency it chanced that his journeys and his jests 
were so thoroughly known to the press of every capital in 
Europe. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 


THE DRIVE. 

Sunday came, and with it the visit to South Kensington, 
wdiere Aunt Jerningham lived ; and Atlee found himself 
seated beside Lady Maude in a fine roomy barouche, whirl- 
ing along at a pace that our great moralist himself admits to 
be amongst the very pleasantest excitements humanity can 
experience. 

“ I hope you will add your persuasions to mine, Mr. Atlee, 
and induce ’my uncle to take these horses with him to Turkey. 
You know Constantinople, and can say that real carriage- 
horses cannot be had there.” 

“ Horses of this size, shape, and action the Sultan himself 
has not the equals of.” 

“ No one is more aware than my Lord,” continued she, 
“ that the measure of an ambassador’s influence is, in a great 
degree, the style and splendor in which he represents his 
country, and that his household, his equipage, his retinue, 
and his dinners should mark distinctly the station he assumes 
to occupy. Some caprice of Mr. Walpole’s about Arab 
horses — Arabs of bone and blood he used to talk of — has 
taken hold of my uncle’s mind, and I half fear that he may 
not take the Eimlish horses with him.” 

“By the vra}^” said Atlee, half listlessly, “where is 
Walpole? What has become of him?” 

“ He is in Ireland at this moment.” 

“In Ireland! Good heavens I has he not had enough of 
Ireland? ” 

“ Apparently not. He Avent over there on Tuesday last.” 
“ And what can he possibly have to do in Ireland? ” 

“I should say that you are more likely to furnish the 
answer to that question than I. If I ’m not much mistaken, 


504 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


bis letters are forwarded to the same country house where 
you first made each other’s acquaintance.” 

“What, Kilgobbin Castle?” 

“Yes, it is something Castle, and I think the name you 
mentioned.” 

“ And this only puzzles me the more,” added Atlee, 
pondering. 

“ His first visit there, at the time I met him, was a mere 
accident of travel, — a tourist’s curiosity to see an old castle 
supposed to have some historic associations.” 

“Were there not some other attractions in the spot?” 
interrupted she, smiling. 

“ Yes, there w^as a genial old Irish Squire, who did the 
honors very handsomely, if a little rudely, and there wer 
two daughters, or a daughter and a niece, I ’m not very clear 
which, who sang Irish melodies and talked rebellion to 
match very amusingly.” 

“Were they pretty?” 

“Well, perhaps courtesy would say ‘pretty,’ but a keener 
criticism would dwell on certain awkwardnesses of manner, 
— Walpole called them Irishries.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“Yes, he confessed to have been amused with the eccen- 
tric habits and odd ways, but he was not sparing of his 
strictures afterwards.” 

“So that there were no ‘tendernesses’?” 

“ Oh, I ’ll not go that far. I rather suspect there w'ere 
‘ tendernesses,’ but onl}^ such as a fine gentleman permits 
himself amongst semi-savage peoples, — something that 
seems to say, ‘ Be as fond of me as 3’ou like, and it is a 
great privilege you enjoy ; and I, on m}^ side, will accord 
you such of my affections as I set no particular store by.’ 
Just as one throws small coin to a beggar.” 

“Oh, Mr. Atlee!” 

“ I am ashamed to own that I have seen something of 
this kind myself.” 

“It is not like my cousin Cecil to behave in that 
fashion.” 

“I might say. Lady Maude, that your home experiences 
of people would prove a very fallacious guide as to what 


THE DRIVE. 


505 


they might or might not do in a society of whose ways 
you know nothing.” 

“A man of honor would always be a man of honor.” 
“There are men, and men of honor, as there are persons 
of excellent principles with delicate moral health, and they 
— I say it with regret — must be satisfied to be as respect- 
ably conducted as they are able.” 

“I don’t think you like Cecil,” said she, half puzzled b}" 
his subtlety, but hitting what she thought to be a “ blot.’' 
“It is difficult for me to tell his cousin what I should 
like to sav in answer to this remark.” 

“ Oh, have no embarrassment on that score. There are 
very few people less trammelled by the ties of relationship 
than we are. Speak out, and if you want to say anything 
particularly severe, have no fears of wounding my sus- 
ceptibilities.” 

“ And do you know. Lady Maude,” said he, in a voice of 
almost confidential meaning, “ this was the very thing I was 
dreading? I had at one time a good deal of Walpole’s in- 
tiiiiacy, — I ’ll not call it friendship, for somehow there w'ere 
certain differences of temperament • that separated us con- 
tinually. We could commonly agree upon the same things; 
we could never be one-minded about the same people. In 
my experiences, the world is by no means the cold-hearted 
and selfish thing he deems it ; and yet I suppose. Lad}" 
Maude, if there were to be a verdict given upon us both, 
nine out of ten would have fixed on 77ie as the scoffer. Is 
not this so?” 

The artfulness with which he had contrived to make 
himself and his character a question of discussion achieved 
only a half success, for she only gave one of her most 
meaningless smiles as she said, “ I do not know; I am 
not quite sure.” 

“ And yet I am more concerned to learn what you would 
think on this score than for the opinion of the whole world.” 
Like a man who has taken a leap and found a deep 
“drop” on the other side, he came to a dead halt as he 
saw the cold and impassive look her features had assumed. 
He would have given worlds to recall his speech and stand 
as he did before it was uttered ; for though she did not 


506 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Bay one word, there was that in her calm and composed 
expression which reproved all that savored of passionate 
appeal. A now-or-never sort of courage nerved him, and 
he went on; I know all the presumption of a man like 
myself daring to address such words to you. Lady Maude ; 
but do you remember that though all eyes but one saw only 
fog-bank in the horizon, Columbus maintained there was 
land in the distance? and so say I, ‘ He who would lay his 
fortunes at your feet now sees high honors and great re- 
wards awaiting him in the future. It is with you to say 
whether these honors become the crowning glories of a life, 
or all pursuit of them be valueless ! ’ May I — dare I 
hope? ’* 

‘‘This is Lebanon,” said she; “at least I think so; ” and 
she held her glass to her e}^e. “ Strange caprice, was n’t it, 

to call her house Lebanon because of those wretched cedars? 
Aunt derningham is so odd!” 

“There is a crowd of carriages here,” said Atlee, en- 
deavoring to speak with unconcern. 

“ It is her day; she likes to receive on Sundays, as she 
says she escapes the bishops. By the way, did you tell 
me you were an old friend of hers, or did I dream it?” 
“I’m afraid it was the vision revealed it?” 

“Because, if so, I must not take you in. She has a 
rule against all presentations on Sundays, — they are only 
her intimates she receives on that day. We shall have to 
return as we came.” 

“^sot for worlds. Pray let me not prove an embarrass- 
ment. You can make your visit, and I will go back on 
foot. Indeed, I should like a walk.” 

“On no account! Take the carriage, and send it back 
for me. I shall remain here till afternoon tea.” 

“ Thanks, but I hold to my walk.” 

“It is a charming day, and I’m sure a walk will be 
delightful.” 

“ Am I to suppose. Lady Maude,” said he, in a low voice, 
as he assisted her to alight, “ that you wdll deign me a more 
formal answer at another time to the words I ventured to 
address you ? May I live in the hope that I shall yet regard 
this day as the most fortunate of my life ? ” 


THE DRIVE. 


507 


“It is wonderful weather for November, — an English 
November, too. Pray let me assure you that you need not 
make yourself uneasy about what you were speaking of. I 
shall not mention it to any one, least of all to ‘ my Lord ; ’ 
and as for myself, it shall be as completely forgotten as 
though it had never been uttered.'*’ 

And she held out her hand with a sort of cordial frank- 
ness that actually said, “ There, you are forgiven ! Is there 
any record of generosity like this? ” 

Atlee bowed low and resignedly over that gloved hand, 
which he felt he was touching for the last time, and turned 
away with a rush of thoughts through his brain, in which 
certainly the pleasantest were not the predominating ones. 

He did not dine that day at Bruton Street, and only 
returned about ten o’clock, when he knew he should find 
Lord Danesbury in his study. 

“ I have determined, my Lord,” said he, with somewhat 
of decision in his tone that savored of a challenge, “to go 
over to Ireland by the morning mail.” 

Too much engrossed by his own thoughts to notice the 
other’s manner. Lord Danesbury merely turned from the 
papers before him to say, “Ah, indeed! it would be very 
well done. We were talking about that, were we not, 
yesterday? What was it?” 

“The Greek, — Kostalergi’s daughter, my Lord?” 

“ To be sure. You are incredulous about her, ain’t 
you? ” 

“ On the contrary, my Lord, I opine that the fellow has 
told us the truth. I believe he has a daughter, and destines 
this money to be her dowry.” 

“ With all my heart; I do not see how it should concern 
me. If I am to pay the money, it matters very little to me 
whether he invests it in a Greek husband or the Double 
Zero, — speculations, I take it, pretty much alike. Have 
you sent a telegram ? ” 

“ I have, my Lord. I have engaged your Lordship’s word 
that vou are willing to treat.” 

“Just so; it is exactly what I am! Willing to treat, 
willing to hear argument, and reply with my own, why I 
should give more for anything than it is worth.” 


508 


LORI) KILGOBBIN. 


“ We need not discuss further what we can only regard 
from one point of view, and that our own.” 

Lord Danesbury started. The altered tone and manner 
struck him now for the first time, and he threw his spectacles 
on the table and stared at the speaker with astonishment. 

“There is another point, my Lord,” continued Atlee, with 
unbroken calm, “ that I should like to ask your Lordship’s 
judgment upon, as I shall in a few hours be in Ireland, 
where the question will present itself. There was some time 
ago in Ireland a case brought undei’your Lordship’s notice of 
a very gallant resistance made by a family against an armed 
party who attacked a house, and your Lordship was gra- 
ciously pleased to say that some recognition should be 
offered to one of the sons, — something to show how the 
Government regarded and approved his spirited conduct.” 

“I know, I know; but I am no longer the Viceroy.” 

“ I am aware of that, my Lord, nor is your successor 
appointed ; but any suggestion or wish of your Lordship’s 
would be accepted by the Lords Justices with great defer- 
ence, all the more in payment of a debt. If, then, your 
Lordship would recommend this young man for the first 
vacancy in the constabulary, or some place in the Customs, 
it -would satisfy a most natural expectation, and, at the 
same time, evidence your Lordship’s interest for the country 
you so late ruled over.” 

“ There is nothing more pernicious than forestalling other 
people’s patronage, Atlee. Not but if this thing was to be 
done for yourself — ” 

“Pardon me, my Lord, I do not desire anything for 
myself.” 

“ Well, be it so. Take this to the Chancellor or the Com- 
mander-in-Chief,” — and he scribbled a few hasty lines as he 
talked, — “ and say what you can in support of it. If they 
give you something good, I sliall be heartily glad of it, and 
1 wish you years to enjoy it.” 

Atlee only smiled at the warmth of interest for him whicli 
was linked with such a shortness of memory, but was too 
much wounded in his pride to reply. And now, as he saw 
that his Lordship had replaced his glasses and resumed his 
work, he walked noiselessly to the door and withdrew. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 


THE SAUNTER IN TOWN. 

As Atlee sauntered along towards Downing Street, whence 
he purposed to despatch his telegram to Greece, he thought 
a good deal of his late interview with Lord Danesbury. 
There was much in it that pleased him. He had so far 
succeeded in re Kostalergi, that the case was not scouted 
out of court; the matter, at least, was to be entertained, and 
even that was something. The fascination of a scheme to 
be developed, an intrigue to be worked out, had for his 
peculiar nature a charm little short of ecstasy. The demand 
upon his resources for craft and skill, concealment and 
duplicit}’, was only second in his estimation to the delight 
he felt at measuring his intellect with some other, and 
seeing -whether, in the game of subtlety, he had his master. 

Next to this, but not without a long interval, was the 
pleasure he felt at the terms in which Lord Danesbury spoke 
of him. No orator accustomed to hold an assembly en- 
thralled by his eloquence, no actor habituated to sway the 
passions of a crowded theatre, is more susceptible to the 
promptings of personal vanity than your “practised talker.” 
The man wLo devotes himself to be a “success” in conver- 
sation glories more in his triumphs, and sets a greater 
value on his gifts, than any other I know of. 

That men of mark and station desired to meet him, that 
men whose position secured to them the advantage of asso- 
ciating wdth the pleasantest people and the freshest minds 
— men w-ho commanded, so to say, the best talking in 
society — wished to confer with and to hear was an 
intense flattery, and he actually longed for the occasion of 
display. He had learned a good deal since he had left Ire- 
land. He had less of that fluency which Irishmen cultivate, 


510 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


seldom ventured on an epigram, never on an anecdote, 
was guardedly circumspect as to statements of fact, and, 
on the w'hole, liked to understate his case, and atfect dis- 
trust of his own opinion. Though there was not one of 
these which were not more or less restrictions on him, he 
could be brilliant and witty when occasion served ; and there 
w^as an incisive neatness in his repartee in which he had no 
equal. Some of those he was to meet were w^ell known 
amongst the most agreeable people of society, and he re- 
joiced that, at least, if he were to be put upon his trial, he 
should be judged by his peers. 

With all these flattering prospects, was it not strange that 
his Lordship never dropped a w^ord, nor even a hint, as to 
his personal career? He had told him, indeed, that he 
could not hope for success at Cradford, and laughingly said, 
“You have left Odger miles behind you in your Radicalism. 
Up to this, we have had no Parliament in England sufli- 
cieutly advanced for your opinions.” On the whole, how- 
ever, if not followed up, — which Lord Danesbury strongly 
objected to its being, — he said there wus no great harm in 
a young man making his first advances in political life by 
something startling. They are only fireworks, it is true; 
the great requisite is that they be brilliant, and do not go 
out with a smoke and a bad smell ! 

Beyond this he had told him nothing. Was he minded 
to take him out to Turkey, and as wLat? He had already 
explained to him that the old days in wLich a clever fellow 
could be drafted at once into a secretaryship of Embass}^ 
were gone by; that though a Parliamentary title was held 
to supersede all others, wLether in the case of a man or 
a landed estate, it was all-essential to be in the House for 
that^ and that a diplomatist, like a sweep, must begin wLen 
he is little. 

“As his private secretary,” thought he, “ the position is at 
once fatal to all my hopes with regard to Lady Maude.” 
There was not a woman living more certain to measure a 
man’s pretensions by his station. “Hitherto I have not 
been ‘ classed.’ I might be anybody, or go anywhere. My 
wdde capabilities seemed to say that if I descended to do 
small things, it would be quite as easy for me to do great 


THE SAUNTER IN TOWN. 


511 


ones; and though I copied despatches, they would have 
been rather better if I had drafted them also.” 

Lady Maude knew this. She knew the esteem in which 
her uncle held him. She knew how that uncle, shrew'd 
man of the world as he was, valued the sort of qualities he 
saw in him, and could, better than most men, decide how 
far such gifts were marketable, and what price they brought 
to their possessor. 

“And yet,” cried he, “they don’t know one half of me! 
What would they say if they knew that it was I wrote the 
great paper on Turkish Pduance in the ‘ Memorial Diplo- 
matique,’ and the review of it in the ‘ Quarterly; ’ that it 
w’as I who exposed the miserable compromise of Thiers 
with Gambetta in the ‘ Debats,’ and defended him in the 
‘ Daily News; ’ that the hysterical scream of the ‘ Kreutz 
Zeitung, ’ and the severe article on Bismarck in the ‘ Fort- 
nightly ’ were both mine; and that at this moment I am 
urging in the ‘Pike’ how the Fenian prisoners must be 
amnestied, and showing in a London review that if they are 
liberated Mr. Gladstone should be attainted for high trea- 
son? I should like well to let them know all this; and I ’m 
not sure I would not risk all the consequences to do it.” 

And then he as suddenly bethought him how little account 
men of letters were held in by the Lady Maudes of this 
world; what a humble place they assigned them socially, 
and how small they estimated their chances of worldly 
success I 

“ It is the unrealism of literature as a career strikes them; 
and they cannot see how men are to assure themselves of the 
‘ quoi vivre ’ by providing what so few want, and even they 
could exist without.” 

It was in a revery of this fashion he walked the streets, 
as little cognizant of the crowd around him as if he were 
sauntering along some rippling stream in a mountain gorge. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 


A DARKENED ROOM. 

The “comatose” state, to use the language of the doctors, 
into which Gorman O’Shea had fallen, had continued so long 
as to excite the greatest apprehensions of his friends; for al- 
though not amounting to complete insensibility, it left him 
so apathetic and indifferent to everything and every one, 
that the girls, Kate and Nina, in pure despair, had given 
up reading or talking to him, and passed their hours of 
“watching” in perfect silence in the half-darkened room. 

The stern immobility of his pale features, the glassy 
and meaningless stare of his large blue eyes, the unvarying 
rhythm of a long-drawn respiration, were signs that at 
length became more painful to contemplate than evidences 
of actual suffering; and as day by day went on, and interest 
grew more and more eager about the trial, which was fixed 
for the coming Assize, it was pitiable to see him, whose 
fate was so deeply pledged on the is'sue, unconscious of all 
that vent on around him, and not caring to know any of 
those details the very least of which might determine his 
future lot. 

The instructions drawn up for the defence were sadly in 
need of the sort of information which the sick man alone 
could supply; and Nina and Kate had both been entreated 
to watch for the first favorable moment that should present 
itself, and ask certain questions, the answers to which 
would be of the last importance. 

Though Gill’s affidavit gave many evidences of unscrupu- 
lous falsehood, there was no counter-evidence to set against 
it, and O’Shea’s counsel complained strongly of the meagre 
instructions which were briefed to him in the case, and his 
utter inability to construct a defence upon them. 


A DARKENED ROOM. 


513 


“He said he would tell me something this evening, Kate,” 
said Nina; “so, if you will let me, I will go in your place 
and remind him of his promise.” 

This hopeful sign of returning intelligence was so gratify- 
ing to Kate that she readily consented to the proposition of 
her cousin taking her ‘‘watch,” and, if possible, learning 
something of his wishes. 

“He said it,” continued Nina, “like one talking to him- 
self, and it was not easy to follow him. The words, as well 
as 1 could make out, were ‘ I will say it to-day, — this even- 
ing, if T can. When it is said,’ — here he muttered some- 
thing ; but 1 cannot say whether the words were ‘ My mind 
will be at rest,’ or ‘ I shall be at rest forevermore.’ ” 

Kate did not utter a word ; but her eyes swam, and two 
large tears stole slowly' down her face. 

“His own conviction is that he is dying,” said Nina; but 
Kate never spoke. 

“The doctors persist,” continued Nina, “in declaring that 
this depression is only a well-known symptom of the attack, 
and that all affections of the brain are marked by a certain 
tone of despondency. They even say more, and that the 
cases where this symptom predominates are more frequentl}^ 
followed by recovery. Are you listening to me, child?” 
“No; I was following some thoughts of my own.” 

“ I was merely telling you why I think he is getting better.” 
Kate leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and she 
did not speak. The heaving motion of her shoulders and 
her chest betrayed the agitation she could not subdue. 

“I wish his aunt were here; I see how her absence frets 
him. Is she too ill for the journey?” asked Nina. 

“She sa}^s not, and she seems in some way to be coerced 
by others; but a telegram this morning announces she would 
tr}^ and reach Kilgobbin this evening.” 

“What could coercion mean ? Surely this is mere fancy ? ” 
“1 am not so certain of that. The convent has great hopes 
of inheriting her fortune. She is rich, and she is a devout 
Catholic; and we have heard of cases where zeal for the 
Church has pushed discretion very far.” 

“What a worldly creature it is!” cried Nina; “and who 
would have suspected it? ” 


33 


514 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


“ I do not see the worldliuess of my believing that people 
will do much to serve the cause they follow. IVhen chem- 
ists tell us that there is no hnding such a thing as a glass of 
pure water, where are we to go for pure motives ? ” 

“To one’s heart, of course,” said Nina; but the curl of 
her perfectly cut lip, as she said it, scarcely vouched for the 
sincerity. 

On that same evening, just as the last tiickerings of twi- 
light were dying away, Nina stole into the sick-room, 
and took her place noiselessly beside the bed. 

Slowly moving his arm without turning his head, or b^^ 
any gesture whatever acknowledging her presence, he took 
her hand and pressed it to his burning lips, and then laid it 
upon his cheek. She made no effort to withdraw her hand, 
and sat perfectly still and motionless. 

“Are we alone?” whispered he, in a voice hardly audible. 

“Yes, quite alone.” 

“If I should say what — displease you,” faltered he, his 
agitation making speech even more diflicult; “how shall 
I tell? ” And once more he pressed her hand to his lips. 

“No, no; have no fears of displeasing me. Say what you 
would like to tell me.” 

‘‘It is this, then,” said he, with an effort. “I am dying 
with my secret in my heart. I am dying, to carry away 
with me the love 1 am not to tell, — my love for you, Kate.” 

“I am not Kate,” was almost on her lips; but her struggle 
to keep silent was aided by that desire so strong in her 
nature, — to follow out a situation of difficulty to the end. 
She did not love him, nor did she desire his love; but a 
strange sense of injury at hearing his profession of love 
for another shot a pang of intense suffering through her 
heart, and she lay back in her chair with a cold feeling of 
sickness like fainting. The overpowering passion of her 
nature was jealousy ; and to share even the admiration of a 
salon, the “passing homage,” as such deference is called, 
with another, was a something no effort of her generosity 
could compass. 

Though she did not speak, she suffered her hand to remain 
unresistingly within his oavu. After a short pause he 
went on; “I thought yesterday that I was dying; and in 


A DARKENED ROOM. 


515 


my rambling intellect I thought I took leave of you ; and 
do you know my last words, — my last words, Kate ? ” 
‘‘No; what were they ? ” 

“My last words were these: ‘ Beware of the Greek; have 
no friendship with the Greek. ’ ” 

“And why that warning? ” said she, in a low, faint voice. 
“8he is not of us, Kate; none of her ways or thoughts are 
ours, uoi\ would they suit us. She is subtle and Clevel- 
and sly ; and these only mislead those who lead simple 
lives.” 

“May it not be that you wrong her? ” 

“1 have tried to learn her nature.” 

“ Not to love it? ” 


“1 believe I was beginning to love her — just when you 
were cold to me. You remember when?” 

“I do; and it was this coldness was the cause? Was it 
the only cause? ” 

“No, no. She has wiles and ways which, with her beauty, 
make her nigh irresistible.” 

“And now you are cured of this passion? There is no 
trace of it in your breast? ” 

“Not a vestige. But why speak of her?” 

“Perhaps I am jealous.” 

Once more he pressed his lips to her hand, and kissed it 
rapturously. 

“No, Kate,” cried he, “none but you have the place in 
my heart. 'Whenever I have tried a treason it has turned 
against me. Is there light enough in the room to find a 
small portfolio of red-brown leather? It is on that table 
yonder.” 

Had the darkness been not almost complete, Nina would 
scarcely have ventured to rise and cross the room, so fearful 
was she of being recognized. 

“It is locked,” said she, as she laid it beside him on the 
bed; but touching a secret spring, he opened it, and passed 
his fingers hurriedly through the papers within. 

“I believe it must be this,” said he. “I think I know 
the feel of the paper. It is a telegram from my aunt; the 
doctor gave it to me last night. 'We read it over together 
four or five times. This is it, and these are the words: ‘ If 


516 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


Kate will be your wife, the estate of O’Shea’s Barn is your 
own forever. ’ ” 

“Is she to have no time to think over this offer?” asked 
she. 

“Would you like caudles, miss? ” asked a maid-servant, 
of whose presence there neither of the others had been 
aware. 

“No, nor are you wanted,” said Nina, haughtily, as she 
arose; while it was not without some difficulty she withdrew 
her hand from the sick man’s grasp. 

“I know,” said he, falteringly, “3^011 would not leave me 
if you had not left hope to keep me compau}^ in your 
absence. Is not that so, Kate?” 

“By-b}",” said she, softly, and stole awa3^ 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


AN ANGRY COLLOQUY.' 

It Tvas with passionate eagerness Nina set off in search of 
Kate. Why she should have felt herself wronged, outraged, 
insulted even, is not so easy to say; nor shall I attempt 
any analysis of the complex web of sentiments which, so to 
say, spread itself over her faculties. The man who had so 
wounded her self-love had been at her feet; he had followed 
her in her walks, hung over the piano as she sang, — shown 
by a thousand signs that sort of devotion by which men 
intimate that their lives have but one solace, one ecstasy, 
one joy. By what treachery had he been moved to all this, 
if he really loved another? That he was simply amusing 
himself with the sort of flirtation she herself could take up 
as a mere pastime was not to be believed. That the wor- 
shipper should be insincere in his worship was too dreadful 
to think of. And yet it was to this very man she had once 
turned to avenge herself on Walpole’s treatment of her; she 
had even said, ‘‘Could you not make a quarrel with him?” 
Now, no woman of foreign breeding puts such a question 
without the perfect consciousness that, in accepting a man’s 
championship, she has virtually admitted his devotion. 
Her own levity of character, the thoughtless indifference 
with which she would sport with any man’s affections, so 
far from inducing her to palliate such caprices, made her 
more severe and unforgiving. “How shall 1 punish him 
for this ? How shall I make him remember whom it is he 
has insulted?” repeated she over and over to herself as she 
went. 

The servants passed her on the stairs with trunks and 
luggage of various kinds ; but she was too much engrossed 


518 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


with her own thoughts to notice them. Suddenly the words, 
“Mr. Walpole’s room/’ caught her ear, and she asked, 
“lias any one come?” 

Yes; two gentlemen had just arrived. A third was to 
come that night, and Miss O’Shea might be expected at any 
moment. 

IVhere was Miss Kate? she inquired. 

“In her own room at the top of the house.” 

Thither she hastened at once. 

“Be a dear good girl,” cried Kate, as Nina entered, “and 
help me in my many embarrassments. Here are a flood of 
visitors all coming unexpectedly. Major Lockwood and 
Mr. AValpole have come. Miss Betty will be here for 
dinner; and Mr. Atlee, whom we all believed to be in Asia, 
may arrive to-night. I shall be able to feed them ; but 
how to lodge them with any pretension to comfort is more 
than I can seco” 

“I am in little humor to aid any one. I have my own 
troubles, — w’orse ones, perhaps, than playing hostess to 
disconsolate travellers.” 

“And what are your troubles, dear Nina?” 

“I have half a mind not to tell you. You ask me with 
that supercilious air that seems to say, ‘ How can a creature 
like you be of interest enough to any one or anything to 
have a difficulty ? ’ ” 

“I force no confidences,” said the other, coldly. 

“For that reason, you shall have them, — at least, this 
one. AYhat will you say when 1 tell you that young O’Shea 
has made me a declaration, — a formal declaration of 
love ? ” 

“I should say that you need not speak of it as an insult 
nor an offence.” 

“Indeed! and if so, you "would say what was perfectly 
wrong. It was both insult and offence, — yes, both. Do 
you know that the man mistook me for and called me 
Kate ? ” 

“How could this be possible? ” 

“In a darkened room, with a sick man slowly rallying 
from a long attack of stupor; nothing of me to be seen but 
my hand, which he devoured with kisses, — raptures, in- 


AX AXGUY COLLOQUY. 519 

deed, Kate, of wbicli I bad no conception till I experienced 
them by counterfeit! ” 

“Ob! Nina, this is not fair! ” 

“It is true, child. Tbe man caugbt my band, and declared 
be would never quit it till I promised it should be bis own. 
Nor was be content with this; but, anticipating bis right 
to be lord and master, be bade you to beware of me! 
‘ Beware of that Greek girl ! ’ were bis words, — words 
strengthened by what be said of my character and my tem- 
perament. I shall spare you, and I shall spare myself bis 
acute comments on tbe nature be dreaded to see in compan- 
ionship with bis wife. I have bad good training in learn- 
ing these unbiassed judgments, — my early life abounded 
in such experiences; but this young gentleman’s cautions 
were candor itself.” 

“I am sincerely sorry for what has pained you.” 

“I did not say it was this boy’s foolish words bad 
wounded me so acutely. I could bear sterner critics than 
be is; bis very blundering misconception of me would 
always plead bis pardon. How could be, or bow could they 
with whom be lived and talked and smoked and swaairered, 
know of me, or such as me? What could there be in tbe 
monotonous vulgarity of their tiresome lives that should 
teach them what we are, or what we wish to be? By what 
presumption did be dare to condemn all that be could not 
understand ? ” 

“You are angry, Nina; and I will not say, without some 
cause.” 

“AYbat ineffable generosity! You can really constrain 
yourself to believe that I have been insulted! ” 

“I should not say insulted.” 

“You cannot be an honest judge in such a cause. Every 
outrage offered to me was an act of homage to yourself. 
If you but knew bow I burned to tell him who it was whose 
band be held in bis, and to whose ears be bad poured out 
bis raptures! To tell him, too, bow tbe Greek girl would 
have resented bis presumption had he but dared to indulge 
it! One of the women servants, it would seem, was a wit- 
ness to this boy’s declaration. I think it was Mary was in 
tbe room; I do not know for bow long, but she announced 


520 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


her presence by asking some question about candles. In 
fact, I shall have become a servants’-hall scandal by this 
time.” 

“There need not be any fear of that, Nina; there are no 
bad tongues amongst our people.” 

“I know all that. I know we live amidst human perfecti- 
bilities, — all of Irish manufacture, and warranted to be 
genuine.” 

“I would hope that some of your impressions of Ireland 
are not unfavorable? ” 

“I scarcely know. I suppose you understand each other, 
and are tolerant about capricious moods and ways which to 
strangers might seem to have a deeper significance. I be- 
lieve you are not as hasty or as violent or as rash as you 
seem; and I am sure you are not as impulsive in your 
generosity, or as headlong in your affections. Not exactly 
that you mean to be false, but you are hypocrites to your- 
selves.” 

“A very flattering picture of us.” 

“I do not mean to flatter you; and it is to this end I say, 
you are Italians without the subtlety of the Italian, and 
Greeks without their genius. You need not courtesy so 
profoundly. I could say worse than this, Kate, if I were 
minded to do so.” 

“Pray do not be so minded, then. Pray remember that, 
even when you wound me, I cannot return the thrust.” 

“I know what you mean,” cried Nina, rapidly. “You 
are veritable Arabs in your estimate of hospitality; and 
he who has eaten your salt is sacred.” 

“You remind me of what I had nigh forgotten, Nina, — 
of our coming guests.” 

“Do you know why Walpole and his friend are coming? ” 

“They are already come, Nina, — they are out walking 
with papa; but what has brought them here I cannot 2,’uess, 
and, since I have heard your description of Ireland, I can- 
not imagine.” 

“Nor can I,” said she, indolently, and moved away. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 


MATHEW Kearney’s reflections. 

To have his house full of company, to see his table crowded 
with guests, w^as nearer perfect happiness than anything 
Kearney knew; and when he set out, the morning after the 
arrival of the strangers, to show Major Lockwood where he 
would find a brace of woodcocks, the old man was in such 
spirits as he had not known for years. 

“Why don’t your friend Walpole come with us?” asked 
he of his companion, as they trudged across the bog. 

“I believe I can guess,” mumbled out the other; “but 
I ’m not quite sure I ought to tell.” 

“ I see,” said Kearney, with a knowing leer ; “ he ’s afraid 
I’ll roast him about that unlucky despatch he wu-ote.. He 
thinks I ’ll give him no peace about that bit of stupidity ; 
for you see. Major, it was stupid, and nothing less. Of all 
the things we despise in Ireland, take my word for it, there 
is nothing w^e think so little of as a weak government. We 
can stand up strong and bold against hard usage, and we 
gain self-respect by resistance ; but when you come down to 
conciliations and wiiat you call healing measures, w’e feel as 
if you were going to humbug us, and there is not a devil- 
ment comes into our heads w^e would not do, just to see how 
you ’ll bear it ; and it ’s then your London new’spapers cry 
out: ‘What’s the use of doing anything for Ireland? We 
pulled down the Church, and w^e robbed the landlords, and 
w^e ’re now g-oins: to back Cardinal Cullen for them, and there 
they are murthering away as bad as ever.’ ” 

“Is it not true? ” asked the Major. 

“ And whose fault if it is true? AVho has broke down the 
laws in Ireland but yourselves? We Irish never said that 
many things you called crimes were bad in morals, and when 


522 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


it occurs to 3^011 now to doubt if they are crimes, I ’d like to 
ask you, wdiy would n’t loe do them? You won’t give us our 
independence, and so we ’ll fight for it ; and though, maybe, 
we can’t lick 3^011, we’ll make 3^our life so uncomfortable to 
3’ou, keeping us down, that 3^011 ’ll beg a compromise, — a 
healing measure, 3^011 ’ll call it, — just as when I won’t give 
Tim Sullivan a lease, he takes a shot at me ; and as I I’eckon 
the holes in my hat, I think better of it, and take a pound 
or two off his rent.” 

“ So that, in fact, you court the polic3^ of conciliation?” 
‘‘Only because I’m weak, Major, — because I’m weak, 
and that I must live in the neighborhood. If I could pass 
m3" da3"S out of the range of Tim’s carbine, I w"ould n’t 
reduce him a shilling.” 

“ I can make nothing of Ireland or Irishmen either.” 

“ AVh3" would you? God help us ! we are poor enough and 
wretched enough ; but w-e ’re not come down to that yet that 
a Major of Dragoons can read us like big print.” 

“ So far as I see 3"ou wish for a strong despotism.” 

“ In one way it ’would suit us well. Do you see. Major, 
what a w"eak administration and uncertain laws do? They 
set ev.ei’3" man in Ireland about righting himself 1)3* his own 
hand. If I know I shall be starved when I am turned out 
of m3" holding, I ’m not at all so sure I ’ll be hanged if I shoot 
my landlord. Make me as certain of the one as the other, 
and I ’ll not shoot him.” 

“ I believe I understand 3"ou.” 

“ No, 3"ou don’t, nor au3" Cockney among 3"ou.” 

“ I ’m not a Cockney.” 

“ I don’t care, you ’re the same : you ’re not one of us ; nor, 
if you spent fifty 3"ears among us, would you understand us.” 
“Come over and see me in Berkshire, Kearnev, and let 
me see if 3"ou can read our people much better.” 

“ From all I hear, there’s not much to read. Your chaw- 
bacon is n’t as ’cute a fellow as Pat.” 

“ lie’s easier to live with.” 

“ ^laybe so ; but I would n’t care for a life with such people 
about me. I like human nature, and human feelings, — aye, 
human passions, if you must call them so. I want to know 
— I can make some people love me, though I well know there 


MATHEW KEARNEY’S REFLECTIONS. 


523 


must be others will hate me. You ’re all for tranquillity all 
over in England, — a quiet life you call it. I like to live 
without knowing what ’s coming, and to feel all the time that 
1 know enough of the game to be able to play it as well as 
my neighbors. Do you follow me now, Major?” 

“ I ’m not quite certain I do.” 

“No, — but I’m quite certain you don’t; and, indeed, I 
wonder at myself talking to you about these things at all.” 

“I’m much gratified that you do so. In fact, Kearney, 
you give me courage to speak a little about myself and 
my own affairs ; and, if you will allow me, to ask your 
advice.” 

This was an unusually long speech for the Major, and he 
actually seemed fatigued when he concluded. He was, how- 
ever, consoled for his exertions by seeing what pleasure his 
words had conferred on Kearney, and with what racy self- 
satisfaction that gentleman heard himself mentioned as a 
“wise opinion.” 

“ I believe I do know a little of life. Major,” said he, 
sententiously. “As old Giles Dackson used to say, ‘Get 
Mathew Kearney to tell you what he thinks of it.’ You 
knew Giles? ” 

“No.” 

‘ ‘ Well, you ’ve heard of him ? No ! not even that. There ’s 
another proof of what I was saying, — we ’re two people, the 
English and the Irish. If it was n't so, you ’d be no stranger 
to the sayings and doings of one of the ’cutest men that ever 
lived.” 

“ We have witty fellows, too.” 

“No, 3^011 haven’t! Do 3^011 call 3"our House of Com- 
mons’ jokes wit? Are the stories 3^011 tell at 3"0ur hustings’ 
speeches wit? Is there one over there ” — and he pointed in 
the direction of England — “ that ever made a smart repar- 
tee or a brilliant answer to any one about anything? You 
now and then tell an Irish stoi’3q and you forget the point ; 
or you quote a French ‘ mot,’ and leave out the epigram. 
Don’t be angry, — it ’s truth I ’m telling you.” 

“ I ’m not angry, though I must say I don’t think you are 
fair to us.” 

“The last bit of brillianc3^ 3"ou had in the House was 


524 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


Brinsley Sheridan, and there was n’t much English about 
him.'' 

“ I’ve never heard that the famous O’Connell used to con- 
vulse the House with his drollery.” 

“Why should he? Didn’t he know where he was? Do 
you imagine that O’Connell was going to do like poor Lord 
Killeen, wLo shipped a cargo of coal-scuttles to Africa? ” 
“Will you explain to me then, how, if you are so much 
shrewder and wittier and cleverer than us, that it does not 
make you richer, more prosperous, and more contented ? ” 

“ I could do that, too, but I’m losing the birds. There ’s 
a cock now. Well done ! I see you can shoot a bit. Look 
here. Major, there’s a deal in race, — in the blood of a 
people. It’s very hard to make a light-hearted, joyous 
people thrifty. It ’s your sullen fellow, that never cuts a 
joke, nor wants any one to laugh at it, that ’s the man who 
saves. If you ’re a wit, you w'ant an audience, and the best 
audience is round a dinner-table ; and we know what that 
costs. Now, Ireland has been very pleasant for the last 
hundred and fifty years in that fashion, and you, and scores 
of other low-spirited, depressed fellows, come over here to 
pluck up and rouse yourselves, and you go home, and you 
wonder why the people who amused 3^011 were not always as 
jolly as you saw them. I’ve known this countiy now nigh 
sixty years, and I never knew a turn of prosperit}" that 
did n’t make us stupid ; and, upon my conscience, I believe, 
if we ever begin to grow rich, we ’ll not be a bit better than 
3"ourselves.” 

“That would be very dreadful,” said the other, in mock 
horror. 

“So it would, whether 3^011 mean it or not. There’s a 
hare missed this time ! ” 

“ I was thinking of something I wanted to ask 3^011. The 
fact is, Kearne3^, 1 have a thing on my mind now.” 

“Is it a duel? It’s many a day since I was out, but I 
used to know every step of the wa3^ as well as most men.” 

“ No ; it ’s not a duel ! ” 

“ It ’s money, then ! Bother it for money. What a deal 
of bad blood it leads to ! Tell me all about it, and I ’ll see 
if I can’t deal with it.” 


MATHEW KEARNEY’S REFLECTIONS. 


525 


“ No, it’s not money; it has nothing to do with money. 
I’m not hard up. I was never less so.” 

“ Indeed ! ” cried Kearney, staring at him. 

“ Why, what do you mean by that? ” 

‘‘I was curious to see how a man looks, and I’d like to 
know how he feels, that did n’t want money. I can no 
more understand it than if a man told me he did n’t want 
air.” 

“If he had enough to breathe freely, could he need 
more ? ” 

“ That would depend on the size of his lungs, and I be- 
lieve mine are pretty big. But come now, if there ’s nobody 
you want to shoot, and you have a good balance at the 
banker’s, what can ail you, except it ’s a girl you want to 
marry, and she won’t have you? ” 

“ Well, there is a lady in the case.” 

“Aye, aye! she’s a married woman,” cried Kearney, 
closing one eye, and looking intensely cunning. “Then I 
may tell you at once. Major, I ’m no use to you whatever. 
If it was a young girl that liked you against the wish of her 
family, or that you were in love with though she was below 
you in condition, or that was promised to another man but 
wanted to get out of her bargain, I ’m good for any of these, 
or scores more of the same kind ; but if it ’s mischief and 
misery and life-long sorrow you have in your head, you 
must look out for another adviser.” 

‘‘It’s nothing of the kind,” said the other, bluntly. “It’s 
marriage I was thinking of. I want to settle down and have 
a wife.” 

“Then why could n’t you, if you think it would be any 
comfort to you? ” 

The last words were rather uttered than spoken, and 
sounded like a sad reflection uttered aloud. 

“I am not a rich man,” said the Major, with that strain 
it alwa}"s cost him to speak of himself, “but I have got 
enough to live on. A goodish old house, and a small estate, 
underlet as it is, bringing me about two thousand a year, 
and some expectations, as they call them, from an old 
grand-aunt.” 

“ You have enough, if you marry a prudent girl,” mut- 


526 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


tered Kearney, who was never happier than when advocating 
moderation and discretion. 

‘‘ hhiough, at least, not to look for money with a wife.’^ 
“I’m with you there, heart and soul,” cried Kearney. 
“Of all the shabby inventions of our civilization, 1 don’t 
know one as mean as that custom of giving a marriage- 
portion with a girl. Is it to induce a man to take her? Is 
it to pay for her board and lodging? Is it because marriage 
is a partnership, and she must bring her share into the 
‘ concern ; ’ or is it to provide for the day when they are to 
part company, and each go his own road ? Take it how you 
like, it’s bad and it’s shabby. If you’re rich enough to 
give your daughter twenty or thirty thousand pounds, wait 
for some little family festival, — her birthday, or her hus- 
band's birthday, or a Christmas gathering, or maybe a 
christening, — and put the notes in her hand. Oh, Major 
dear,” cried he, aloud, “ if you knew how much of life you 
lose with lawyers, and what a deal of bad blood comes into 
the world by parchments, you ’d see the wisdom of trusting 
more to human kindness and good feeling, and, above all, 
to the nonor of gentlemen, — things that nowadays we 
always hope to secure by Act of Parliament.” 

“ I go with a great deal of what you say.” 

“ Why not with all of it? What do we gain by trying to 
overreach each other? What advantage in a system where 
it’s always the rogue that wins? If I was a King to- 
morrow,, I ’d rather fine a fellow for quoting Blackstone than 
for blasphemy, and I ’d distribute all the law libraries in the 
kingdom as cheap fuel for the poor. We pra}^ for peace 
and quietness, and we educate a special class of people to 
keep us always wrangling. Where ’s the sense of that? ” 

A\ Idle Kearney poured out these words in a flow of fervid 
conviction, they had arrived at a little open space in the 
wood, from which various alleys led off in different directions. 
Along one of these, two figures were slowly moving side by 
side, whom Lockwood quickly recognized as AA'alpole and 
Nina Kostalergi. Kearney did not see them, for his atten- 
tion was suddenly called off by a shout from a distance, and 
his son Dick rode hastily up to the spot. 

“ I have been in search of you all through the plantation,” 


MATHEW KEARNEY’S REFLECTIONS. 


527 


cried he. “ I have brought back Ilolmes the lavyer from 
Tullamore, who wants to talk to you about this atfair of 
O’Gormaii’s. It’s going to be a bad business, I fear.” 
“Isn’t tliat more of what 1 was sa 3 ung?” said the old 
man, turning to the Major. “There’s law for you!” 

“ They re making what they call a ‘ national ’ event of it,” 
continued Dick. “ The ‘ Pike ’ has opened a column of sub- 
scriptions to defray the cost of proceedings, and they’ve 
engaged Battersby with a hundred guinea retainer already.” 
It appeared from what tidings Dick brought back from the 
town, that the nationalists — to give them the much un- 
merited name by which they called themselves — were 
determined to show how they could dictate to a jury. 

“ There ’s law for you ! ” cried the old man again. 

“You’ll have to take to vigilance committees, like the 
Yankees,” said the Major. 

“We’ve had them for years; but they only shoot their 
political opponents.” 

“ They say, too,” broke in the young man, “that Dono- 
gan is in the town, and that it is he wTo has organized the 
whole prosecution. In fact, he intends to make Battersby’s 
speech for the plaintiff a great declaration of the wrongs of 
Ireland ; and as Battersby hates the Chief Baron, who will 
try the cause, he is determined to insult the Bench, even at 
the cost of a commitment.” 

“AV'^hat will he gain by that?” asked Lockwood. 

“ I ’ll tell you what he ’ll gain, — he ’ll gain the election of 
Mallow,” said Kearney. “ Every one cannot have a father 
that was hanged in ’98 ; but any one can go to jail for 
blackguarding a Chief Justice.” 

For a moment or two the old man seemed ashamed at 
having been led to make these confessions to “ the Saxon ; ” 
and telling Lockwood w'here he would be likely to find a 
brace of cocks, he took his son’s arm and returned homeward. 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 


VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 

When Lockwood returned, only in time to dress for dinner, 
AValpole, whose room adjoined his, threw open the door 
between them and entered. He liad just accomplished a 
most careful “ tie,” and came in with the air of one fairly 
self-satisfied and happy. 

“ You look quite triumphant this evening,” said the 
Major, half sulkily. 

“ So I am, old fellow' ; and so I have a right to be. It ’s 
all done and settled.” 

“ Already? ” 

“Aye, already. I asked her to take a stroll with me in 
the garden ; but we sauntered off into the plantation. A 
w'oman always understands the exact amount of meaning 
a man has in a request of this kind, and her instinct 
reveals to her at once w'hether he is eager to tell her some 
bit of fatal scandal of one of her owm friends, or to make 
her a declaration.” 

A sort of sulky grunt w'as Lockwood’s acknowdedgment of 
this piece of abstract wisdom, — a sort of knowdedge he never 
listened to wdth much patience. 

“I am aware,” said Walpole, flippantly, “the female 
nature w'as an omitted part in your education, Lockw'ood, and 
you take small interest in tliose nice distinctive traits which, 
to a man of the world, are exactly what the stars are to the 
mariner.” 

“ Finding out wdiat a w'oman means by the stars does seem 
very poor fun.” 

“Perhaps you prefer the moon for your observation,” 
replied Walpole ; and the easy impertinence of his manner 
was almost too much for the other’s patience. 


VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 


629 


“ I don’t care for your speculations, — I want to hear what 
passed between you and the Greek girl.” 

The Greek girl will in a very few days be Mrs. Walpole, 
and 1 shall crave a little more deference for the mention of 
her.” 

“ I forgot her name, or I should not have called her with 
such freedom. What is it?” 

“ Kostalergi. Her father is Kostalergi, Prince of Delos.” 
“ All right ; it will read well in the ^ Post.’ ” 

“ jMy dear friend, there is that amount of sarcasm in your 
conversation this evening that, to a plain man like myself, 
never ready at reply, and easily subdued by ridicule, is 
positively overwhelming. Has any disaster befallen you 
that you are become so satirical and severe?” 

“ Never mind me^ — tell me about yourself,” was the blunt 
reply. 

“ I have not the slightest objection. When w^e had walked 
a little way together, and I felt that we were beyond the 
risk of interruption, I led her to the subject of my sudden 
reappearance here, and implied that she, at least, could not 
have felt much surprise. ‘You remember,’ said I, ‘I 
promised to return ? ’ 

“ ‘ There is something so conventional,’ said she, ‘ in these 
pledges, that one comes to read them like the “yours sin- 
cerely ” at the foot of a letter.’ 

“ ‘I ask for nothing better,’ said I, taking her up on her 
own words, ‘than to be “yours sincerely.” It is to ratify 
that pledge by making you “mine sincerely” that I am 
here.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed! ’ said she, slowly, and looking down. 

“ ‘ I swear it! ’ said I, kissing her liand, which, however, 
had a glove on.” 

“ Why not her cheek? ” 

“ That is not done. Major mine, at such times.” 

“ Well, go on.” 

“ I can’t recall the exact words, for I spoke rapidly; but 
I told her I was named Minister at a foreign Court, that my 
future career was assured, and that I was able to offer her a 
station, not, indeed, equal to her deserts, but that, occupied 
by her, would be only less than royal.” 

34 


530 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ At Guatemala! ” exclaimed the other, derisively. 

“ Have the kindness to keep your geography to yourself,” 
said Walpole. “ I merely said in South America, and she 
had too much delicacy to ask more.” 

“ But she said yes? She consented?” 

“Yes, sir, she said she would venture to commit her 
future to my charge.” 

“Didn’t she ask you what means you had, — what was 
your income?” 

“Not exactly in the categorical way you put it, but she 
alluded to the possible style we should live in.” 

“ I ’ll swear she did. That girl asked }^ou, in plain w^ords, 
how many hundreds or thousands you had a-year ? ” 

“And I told her. I said, ‘It sounds humbly, dearest, 
to tell you we shall not have fully two thousand a-year ; 
but the place we are going to is the cheapest in the uni- 
verse, and we shall have a small establishment of not more 
than forty black and about a dozen white servants, and 
at first only keep twenty horses, taking our carriages on 
job.’” 

“ What about pin-money? ” 

“ There is not much extravagance in toilette, and so I 
said she must manage with a thousand a-year.” 

“ And she did n’t laugh in your face? ” 

“ No, sir ! nor was there any strain upon her good breed- 
ing to induce her to laugh in my face.’’ 

“ At all events, you discussed the matter in a fine practical 
spirit. Did you go into groceries? I hope you did not for- 
get groceries ? ” 

“ My dear Lockwood, let me warn you against being droll. 
You ask me for a correct narrative, and when I give it, you 
will not restrain that subtle sarcasm the masteiy of which 
makes you unassailable.” 

“ When is it to be? When is it to come off? Has she to 
write to Plis Serene Highness tlie Prince of What’s-his- 
name ? ” 

“No, the Prince of What ’s-his-name need not be con- 
sulted ; Lord Kilgobbin will stand in the position of father 
to her.” 

Lockwood muttered something, in which “ Give her 


VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 


531 


away!” were the only words audible. “I must say,” 
added he, aloud, “ the wooing did not take long.” 

“ You forget that there was an actual engagement be- 
tween us when I left this for London. My circumstances 
at that time did not permit me to ask her at once to be my 
wife; but our affections were pledged, and — even if more 
tender sentiments did not determine — my feeling, as a 
man of honor, required I should come back here to make 
her this offer.” 

“All right; I suppose it will do, — I hope it will do; 
and after all, I take it, you are likely to understand each 
other better than others would.” 

“ Such is our impression and belief.” 

“How will your own people — how will Danesbury like 
it?” 

“ For their sakes I trust they will like it very much; for 
mine, it is less than a matter of indifference to me.” 

“ She, however — she will expect to be properly received 
amongst them ? ” 

“ Yes,” cried Walpole, speaking for the first time in a 
perfectly natural tone, divested of all pomposity, — “yes, 
she stickles for that, Lockwood. It was the one point she 
seemed to stand out for. Of course I told her she would 
be received with open arms by my relatives, — that my 
family would be overjoyed to receive her as one of them. 
I only hinted that my Lord’s gout might prevent him from 
being at the wedding. 1 ’m not sure Uncle Danesbury would 
not come over. ‘ And the charming Lady Maude,’ asked 
she, ‘would she honor me so far as to be a bridesmaid?’ ” 
“She didn’t say that?” , 

“ She did. She actually pushed me to promise I should 

ask her.” 

“Which you never would.” 

“Of that I will not affirm I am quite positive; but I 
certainly intend to press my uncle for some sort of recog- 
nition of the marriage, — a civil note ; better still, if it 
could be managed, an invitation to his house in town.” 
“You are a bold fellow to think of it.” 

“ Not so bold as you imagine. Have you not often 
remarked that when a man of good connections is about 


532 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


to exile himself by accepting a far-away post, whether it 
be out of pure compassion or a feeling that it need never 
be clone again, and that they are about to see the last of 
him; but, somehow, — whatever the reason, — his friends 
are marvellously civil and polite to him, just as some be- 
nevolent but eccentric folk send a partridge to the con- 
demned felon for his last dinner.” 

“They do that in France.” 

“Here it would be a rumpsteak ; but the sentiment is 
the same. At all events, the thing is as I told you, and 
I do not despair of Danesbury.” 

“For the letter perhaps not; but he’ll never ask you 
to Bruton Street, nor, if he did, could you accept.” 

“ You are thinking of Lady Maude.” 

“ I am.” 

“There would be no difficulty in that quarter. When a 
Whig becomes Tory, or a Tory Whig, the gentlemen of the 
party he has deserted never take umbrage in the same way 
as the vulgar dogs below the gangway; so it is in the 
world. The people who must meet, must dine together, 
sit side by sicle at flower-shows and garden-parties, always 
manage to do their hatreds decorously, and only pay off 
their dislikes by instalments. If Lady Maude were to 
receive my wdfe at all, it would be with a most wdnning 
politeness. All her malevolence would limit itself to mak- 
ing the supposed underbred woman commit a gaucherie^ to 
do or say something that ouglit not to have been done or 
said ; and as I know Nina can stand the test, I have no 
fears for the experiment.” 

A knock at the door apprised them that the dinner was 
waiting, neither having heard the bell which had summoned 
them a quarter of an hour before. “ And I wanted to 
hear all about your progress,” cried Walpole, as they de- 
scended the staircase together. 

“ I have none to report,” was the gruff reply. 

“Why, surely you have not passed the whole day in 
Kearney’s company without some hint of what you came 
here for?” 

But at the same moment they were in the dining-room. 

“We are a man party to-day, I am sorry to say,” cried 


VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 


533 


old Kearney, as they entered. “ My niece and my daugh- 
ter are keeping Miss O’Shea company upstairs. She is not 
well enough to come down to dinner, and they have scru- 
ples about leaving her in solitude.” 

“At least, we ’ll have a cigar after dinner,” was Dick’s 
ungallant reflection as they moved away. 


CHAPTER LXXYII. 


TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY. 

“I HOPE they bad a pleasanter dinner downstairs than we 
have had here,” said Nina, as, after wishing Miss O’Shea a 
good-night, the young girls slowly mounted the stairs. 

“Poor old godmother was too sad and too depressed to he 
cheerful compau}^; hut did she not talk well and sensibly 
on the condition of the country? Was it not well said, when 
she shovved the danger of all that legislation which, assum- 
ing to establish right, only engenders disunion and class 
jealousy ? ” 

“1 never followed her; I was thinking of something else.” 

“She was worth listening to, then. She knows the 
people well, and she sees all the mischief of tampering with 
natures so imbued with distrust. The Irishman is a gam- 
bler, and English law-makers are always exciting him to 
play.” 

“It seems to me there is very little on the game.” 

“There is everything, — home, family, subsistence, life 
itself, — all that a man can care for.” 

“Never mind these tiresome themes; come into my room; 
or I ’ll go to yours, for I ’m sure you ’ve a better fire; be- 
sides, I can walk away if you offend me, — I mean offend 
beyond endurance; for you are sure to say something 
cutting.” 

“I hope you wrong me, Nina.” 

“Perhaps I do. Indeed, I half suspect I do; but the fact 
is, it is not your words that reproach me, it is your whole 
life of usefulness is my reproach; and the least syllable 
you utter comes charged with all the responsibility of one 
who has a duty and does it, to a mere good-for-nothing. 
There, is not that humility enough?” 


TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY. 


535 


“More than enough, for it goes to flattery.” 

“I hn not a bit sure all the time that I ’m not the more- 
lovable creature of the two. If you like, I T1 put it to the 
vote at breakfast.” 

“Oh, Nina! ” 

“Very shocking, that ’s the phrase for it, — very shock- 
ing! Oh, dear, what a nice fire, and what a nice little 
snug room! How is it, will you tell me, that though my 
room is much larger and better furnished in every way, 
your room is always brighter and neater, and more like a 
little home? They fetch you drier firewood, and they 
bring yon flowers, wherever they get them. I know well 
what devices of roguery they practise.” 

“ Shall I give you tea? ” 

“Of course I’ll have tea. I expect to be treated like a 
favored guest in all things, and I mean to take this arm- 
chair, and the nice soft cushion for my feet; for I warn you, 
Kate, I ’m here for two hours. I ’ve an immense deal to tell 
you, and I ’ll not go till it ’s told.” 

“I ’ll not turn you out.” 

“I’ll take care of that; I have not lived in Ireland for 
nothing. I have a proper sense of what is meant by pos- 
session, and I defy what your great minister calls a heart- 
less eviction. Even your tea is nicer; it is more fragrant 
than any one else’s. I begin to hate you out of sheer 
jealousy.” 

“That is about the last feeling I ought to inspire.” 

“More humility; but I ’ll drop rudeness and tell you my 
story, for I have a story to tell. Are you listening? Are 
you attentive? Well, my Mr. Walpole, as you called him 
once, is about to become so in real earnest. I could have 
made a long narrative of it and held you in weary suspense, 
but I prefer to dash at once into the thick of the fray, and 
tell you that he has this morning made me a formal proposal, 
and I have accepted him. Be pleased to bear in mind that 
this is no case of a misconception or a mistake. No young 
gentleman has been petting and kissing my hand for 
another’s; no tender speeches have been uttered to the ears 
they were not meant for. I have been wooed this time for 
myself, and on my own part I have said yes.” 


536 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“You told me you bad accepted him already. I mean 
when he was here last.” 

“Yes, after a fashion. Don’t you know, child, that, 
though lawyers maintain that a promise to do a certain 
thing, to make a lease or some contract, has in itself a 
binding significance, that in Cupid’s Court this is not law? 
and the man knew perfectly that all passed between us 
hitherto had no serious meaning, and bore no more real 
relation to marriage than an outpost encounter to a battle. 
For all that has taken place up to this, we might never fight 
— I mean marry — after all. The sages say that a girl 
should never believe a man means marriage till he talks 
money to her. Now, Kate, he talked money; and I be- 
lieved him.” 

“I wish you would tell me of these things seriously and 
without banter.” 

“So I do. Heaven knows I am in no jesting humor. It 
is in no outburst of high spirits or gayet}^ a girl confesses 
she is going to marry a man who has neither wealth nor 
station to offer, and whose fine connections are just fine 
enough to be ashamed of him.” 

“Are you in love with him? ” 

“If you mean, do I imagine that this man’s affection 
and this man’s companionship are more to me than all the 
comforts and luxuries of life with another, I am not in love 
with him; but if you ask me, am I satisfied to risk my 
future with so much as I know of his temper, his tastes, his 
breeding, his habits, and his abilities, I incline to say yes. 
Married ‘life, Kate, is a sort of dietary, and one should re- 
member that what he has to eat of every day ought not to 
be too appetizing.” 

“I abhor your theory.” 

“Of course you do, child; and you fancy, naturally 
enough, that you would like ortolans every day for dinner; 
but my poor cold Greek temperament has none of the 
romantic warmth of your Celtic nature. I am very moderate 
in my hopes, very humble in all my ambitions.” 

“It is not thus I read you.” 

“Very probably. At all events, I have consented to be 
Mr. Walpole’s wife, and we are to be Minister Plenipoten- 


TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY. 


537 


tiary and Special Envoy somewhere. It is not Bolivia, 
nor the Argentine Republic, but some other fabulous region, 
where the only fact is yellow fever.” 

“And you really like him? ” 

“I hope so, for evidently it must be on love w'e shall have 
to live; one half of our income being devoted to saddle- 
horses, and the other to my toilette.” 

“How absurd you are! ” 

“No, not I. It is Mr. AValpole himself, who, not trust- 
ing much to my skill at arithmetic, sketched out this sched- 
ule of expenditure; and then I bethought me how simple 
this man must deem me. It was a flattery that won me at 
once. Oh, Kate dearest, if you could understand the 
ecstasy of being thought, not a fool, but one easily duped, 
easily deceived ! ” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It is this, then, that to have a man’s whole heart — 
whether it be worth the having is another and a different 
question — you must impress him with his immense supe- 
riority in everything; that he is not merely physically 
stronger than you, and bolder and more courageous, but 
that he is mentally more vigorous and more able, judges 
better, decides quicker, resolves more fully than you; and 
that, struggle how you will, you pass your life in eternally 
looking up to this wonderful god, who vouchsafes now and 
then to caress you, and even say tender things to you.” 

“Is it, Nina, that you have made a study of these things, 
or is all this mere imagination ? ” 

“ Most innocent young lady ! I no more dreamed of these 
things to apply to such men as your country furnishes — 
good, homel}', commonplace creatures — than I should have 
thought of asking you to adopt French cookery to feed them. 
I spoke of such men as one meets in what I may call the 
real world; as for the others, if they feel life to be a stage, 
they are always going about in slipshod fashion, as if at 
rehearsal. IMen like your brother and young O Shea, for 
instance, tossed here and there by accidents, made one thing 
by a chance, and something else by a misfortune. Take 
my word for it, the events of life are very vulgar things; 
the passions and emotions they evoke, these constitute the 


538 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


high stimulants of existence, they make the gi'os jeu^ which 
it is so exciting to play.” 

“1 follow you with some difficulty; but I am rude enough 
to own I scarcely regret it.” 

'‘I know, — I know all about that sweet innocence that 
fancies to ignore an 3 dhing is to ol)literate it; but it’s a 
fooks paradise, after all, Kate. We are in the w'orld, and 
w^e must accept it as it is made for us.” 

“1 ’ll not ask, does your theory make you better, but 
does it make you happier?” 

“If being duped were an element of bliss, I should say 
certainly not happier; but I doubt the blissful ignorance of 
your great moralist. 1 incline to believe that the better 
you play any game — life amongst the rest — the higher the 
pleasure it yields. I can afford to marry, without believing 
my husband to be a paragon, — could yon do as much ? ” 

“I should like to know that 1 preferred him to any one 
else.” 

“So should I, and I would only desire to add ‘ to every 
one else that asked me.’ Tell the truth, Kate dearest; w^e 
are here all alone, and can afford sincerity. How many 
of us girls marry the man we should like to marry; and if 
the game were reversed, and it were to be we who should 
make the choice, — the slave pick out his master, — how 
many, think you, would be wedded to their present 
mates? ” 

“So long as we can refuse him we do not like, I cannot 
think our case a hard one.” 

“Neither should I if I could stand fast at three-and- 
twenty. The dread of that change of heart and feeling that 
will come, must come, ten years later, drives one to com- 
promise with happiness, and take a part of what you once 
aspired to the whole.” 

“You used to think very highly of Mr. AYalpole; admired, 
and I suspect you liked him.” 

“All true; my opinion is the same still. He will stand 
the great test that one can go into the world with him and 
not be ashamed of him. I know, dearest, even without 
that shake of the head, the small value you attach to this; 
but it is a great element in that droll contract by which 


TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY. 


539 


one person agrees to pit bis temper against another’s, and 
which we are told is made in heaven, with angels as spon- 
sors. Mr. Walpole is sufficiently good-looking to be pre- 
possessing; he is well bred, very courteous, converses 
extremely well, knows his exact place in life, and takes it 
quietly but firmly. All these are of value to his wdfe, and 
it is not easy to overrate them.” 

“Is that enough? ” 

“Enough for what? If you mean for romantic love, for 
the infatuation that defies all change of sentiment, all 
growth of feeling, that revels in the thought, experience will 
not make us wiser, nor daily associations less admiring, it 
is not enough. I, however, am content to bid for a much 
humbler lot. I want a husband who, if he cannot give me 
a brilliant station, will, at least, secure me a good position 
in life, a reasonable share of vulgar comforts, some luxuries, 
and the ordinary routine of what are called pleasures. If, 
in affording me these, he will vouchsafe to add good 
temper, and not high spirits, — which are detestable, — but 
fair spirits, 1 think 1 can promise him, not that I shall 
make him happy, but that he will make himself so, and it 
will afford me much gratification to see it.” 

“Is this real, or — ” 

“Or what? Say what was on your lips.” 

“Or are you utterly heartless?” cried Kate, with an 
effort that covered her face with blushes. 

“I don’t think I am,” said she, oddly and calmly; “but 
all I have seen of life teaches me that every betrayal of a 
feelino; or a sentiment is like what gamblers call showing 
your hand, and is sure to be taken advantage of by the other 
plavers. It’s an ugly illustration, dear Kate; but in the 
same round game we call life there is so much cheating 
that if you cannot afford to be pillaged, you must be 
prudent.” 

“I am glad to feel that I can believe you to be much 
better than you make yourself.” 

“ Do so, and as long as you can.” 

There was a pause of several moments after this, each 
apparently following out her own thoughts. 

“By the way,” cried Nina, suddenly, “did I tell you 


540 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


that Mary wished me joy this morning? She had overheard 
Mr. O’Gorman’s declaration, and believed he had asked 
me to be his wife.” 

“How absurd! ” said Kate; and there was anger as well 
as shame in her look as she said it. 

“Of course it was absurd. She evidently never sus- 
pected to whom she was speaking, and then — ” She 
stopped; for a quick glance at Kate’s face warned her of 
the peril she was grazing. “1 told the girl she was a fool, 
and forbade her to speak of the matter to any one.” ' 

“It is a servants’ -hall story already,” said Kate, quietly. 

“Do you care for that?” 

“Not much; three days will see the end of it.” 

“I declare, in your own homely way, I believe }’ou are 
the wiser of the two of us.” 

“My common sense is of the very commonest,” said 
Kate, laughing; “there is nothing subtle nor even neat 
about it.” 

“Let us see that! Give me a counsel, or, rather, say if 
you agree with me? I have asked Mr. Walpole to show 
me how his family accept my entrance amongst them, with 
what grace they receive me as a relative. One of his cousins 
called me the Greek girl, and in my own hearing. It is 
not, then, over-caution on my part to inquire how they 
mean to regard me. Tell me, however, Kate, how far you 
concur with me in this. I should like much to hear how 
your good sense regards the question. Should you have 
done as I have?” 

“Answer me first one question. If 3^011 should learn that 
these great folks would not welcome 3^011 amongst them, 
would 3"OU still consent to many Mr. Walpole?” 

“I’m not sure, I am not quite certain; but I almost 
believe I should.” 

“I have, then, no counsel to give you,” said Kate, 
firmly. “Two people who see the same object differently 
cannot discuss its proportions.” 

“I see my blunder,” cried Nina, impetuously. “I put 
my question stupidly. I should have said, ‘ If a girl has 
won a man’s affections and given him her own, if she feels 
her heart has no other home than in his keeping, that she 


TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONYL 


541 


lives for him and by him, — should she be deterred from 
joining her fortunes to his because he has some fine con- 
nections who would like to see him marry more advan- 
tageously?’” It needed not the saucy curl of her lip as 
she spoke to declare how every word was uttered in sar- 
casm. ‘'Why will you not answer me?” cried she at 
length; and her eyes shot glances of fiery impatience as 
she said it. 

“Our distinguished fi'iend ]\Ir. Atlee is to arrive to- 
morrow, Dick tells me,” said Kate, with the calm tone of 
one who would not permit herself to be rutiled. 

“Indeed! If your remark has any apropos at all, it must 
mean that in marrying such a man as he is one might 
escape all the dilliculties of family coldness; and I protest, 
as I think of it, the matter has its advantages.” 

A faint smile was all Kate’s answer. 

“I cannot make you angry; I have done my best, and it 
has failed. I am utterly discomfited, and I ’ll go to bed.” 

“Good-night,” said Kate, as she held out her hand. 

“I wonder is it nice to have this angelic temperament, — 
to be always right in one’s judgments, and never carried 
away by passion? I half suspect perfection does not mean 
perfect happiness.” 

“You shall tell me when you are married,” said Kate, 
with a laugh; and Nina darted a flashing glance towards 
her, and swept out of the room. . 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 


A MISERABLE MORNING. 


It was not without considerable heart-sinking and misgiv- 
ing that old Kearney heard it was Miss Betty O’Shea’s 
desire to have some conversation with him after breakfast. 
He w^as, indeed, reassured, to a certain extent, by his 
daughter telling him that the old lady was excessively 
weak, and that her cough was almost incessant, and that 
she spoke with extreme difficulty. All the comfort that 
these assurances gave him w^as dashed by a settled convic- 
tion of Miss Betty’s subtlety. “She ’s like one of the wild 
foxes they have in Crim Tartary; and when you think they 
are dead, they ’re up and at you before 3^011 can look round.” 
He affirmed no more than the truth when he said that “he ’d 
rather walk barefoot to Kilbeggan than go up that stair to 
see her.” 

There was a strange conflict in his mind all this time 
between these ignoble fears and the efforts he was making 
to seem considerate and gentle by Kate’s assurance that a 
cruel word, or even a harsh tone, would be sure to kill her. 
You ’ll have to be very careful, papa dearest,” she said. 
Her nerves are completely^ shattered, and every respiration 
seems as if it would be the last.” 

Mistrust was, however, so strong in him that he would 
have employed any subterfuge to avoid the interview ; but 


a 


u 


the Rev. Luke Delany, wdio had arrived to give her “the 
consolations,” as he briefly phrased it, insisted on Kear- 
ney’s attending to receive the old lady’s forgiveness before 
she died. 

“Upon my conscience,” muttered Kearney, “I was 
always under the belief it was I was injured; but, as the 


A MISERABLE MORNING. 543 

priest says, ‘ it ’s only on one’s death-bed he sees things 
clearly.” 

As Kearney groped his way through the darkened room, 
shocked at his own creaking shoes, and painfully convinced 
that he was somehow deficient in delicacy, a low faint couofi 
guided him to the sofa where Miss O’Shea lay. “Is that 
Mathew Kearney?” said she, feebly. “1 think I know 
his foot.” 

“Yes, indeed, bad luck to them for shoes. 'Wherever 
Davy Morris gets the leather I don’t know; but it ’s as loud 
as a barrel-organ.” 

“ Maybe they ’re cheap, Mathew. One puts up with many 
a thing for a little cheapness.” 

“That’s the first shot!” muttered Kearney to himself, 
while he gave a little cough to avoid reply. 

“Father Luke has been telling me, Mathew, that before 
I go this long journey I ought to take care to settle any 
little matter here that ’s on my mind. ‘ If there ’s anybody 
you bear an ill will to,’ says he, ‘ if there ’s any one has 
wTonged you,’ says he, ‘ told lies of you, or done you any 
bodily harm, send for him,’ says he, ‘ and let him hear your 
forgiveness out of your own mouth. I ’ll take care after- 
wards,’ sa}"s Father Luke, ‘ that he ’ll have to settle the 
account with vie ; but you must n’t mind that. You must 
be able to tell St. Joseph that you come with a clean breast 
and a good conscience; and that’s” — here she sighed 
heavily several times — “and that’s the reason I sent for 
you, Mathew Kearney ! ” 

Poor Kearney sighed heavily over that category of mis- 
doers with wLom he found himself classed, but he said 
nothing. 

“I don’t want to say anything harsh to you, Mathew, 
nor have I strength to listen, if you ’d try to defend your- 
self; time is short with me now; but this I must say, if 
I ’m here now, sick and sore, and if the poor boy in the 
other room is lying down with his fractured head, it is you, 
and you alone, have the blame.” 

“May the blessed Virgin give me patience!” muttered 
he, as he wrung his bands despairingly. 

“I hope she will; and give you more, Mathew Kearney, 


544 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


I hope she ’ll give you a hearty repentance. I hope she ’ll 
teach 3’ou that the few days that remain to you in this life 
are short enough for contrition ; aye, — contrition and 
castigation.” 

“ Ain’t I getting it now? ” muttered he; but low as he 
spoke the words, her quick hearing had caught them. 

“I hope you are; it is the last bit of friendship I can do 
you. You have a hard, worldly, selfish nature, Mathew; 
you had it as a boy, and it grew worse as you grew older. 
AVhat many believed high spirits in you was nothing else 
than the reckless devilment of a man that only thought of 
himself. You could afford to be — at least, to look — light- 
hearted, for you cared for nobody. You squandered your 
little property, and you ’d have made away with the few 
acres that belonged to your ancestors if the law would have 
let you. As for the way you brought up your children, 
that lazy boy below stairs, that never did a hand’s turn, is 
proof enough; and poor Kitty, just because she wasn’t like 
the rest of you, how she ’s treated ! ” 

“How is that, — what is my cruelty there? ” cried he. 

“Don’t try to make yourself out worse than you are,” 
said she, sternly, “and pretend that you don’t know the 
wrong you done her.” 

“May I never — if I understand what you mean.” 

“ Maybe you thought it was no business of yours to pro- 
vide for your own child. Maybe you had a notion that it 
was enough that she had her food and a roof over her while 
you were here, and that somehow — anyhow — she ’d get on, 
as they call it, when you were in the other place. Mathew 
Kearney, I 11 say nothing so cruel to you as your own con- 
science is saying this minute; or, maybe, with that light 
heart that makes your friends so fond of vou, you never 
bothered yourself about her at all; and that’s the way it 
come about.” 

“ ^Yhat came about? I want to know that.’' 

“First and foremost, I don’t think the law will let you. 
I don’t believe you can charge your estate against the 
entail. I have a note there to ask McKeown’s opinion; 
and if I ’m right, I ’ll set apart a sum in my will to contest 
it in the Queen’s Bench. I tell you this to your face, 


A MISERABLE MORNING 


545 


Mathew Kearney, and I ’in going where I can tell it to 
somebody better than a hard-hearted, cruel old man.” 

“What is it that I want to do, and that the law won’t let 
me?” asked he, in the most imploring accents. 

“At least twelve honest men will decide it.” 

“Decide what! in the name of the saints?” cried he. 
“Don’t be profane ; don’t parade your unbelieving notions 
to a poor old woman on her death-bed. You may want to 
leave your daughter a beggar, and your son little better, 
but you have no right to disturb my last moments with your 
terrible blasphemies.” 

“I’m fairly bothered now,” cried he, as his two arms 
dropped powerlessly to his sides. “So help me, if I know 
whether 1 ’m awake or in a dream.” 

“It’s an excuse won’t serve you where you’ll be soon 
going, and I warn you, don’t trust it.” 

“Have a little pity on me. Miss Betty, darling,” said he, 
in his most coaxing tone; “and tell me what it is I have 
done? ” 

“You mean what you are trying to do; but what, please 
the Virgin, we ’ll not let you! ” 

“AVhat is 

“And what, weak and ill, and dying as I am, I ’ve 
strength enough left in me to prevent, Mathew Kearney; 
and if you ’ll give me that Bible there, I ’ll kiss it, and take 
my oath that, if he marries her, he ’ll never put foot in a 
house of mine, nor inherit an acre that belongs to me; and 
all that I’ll leave in my will shall be my — well, I won’t say 
w'hat; only it’s something he’ll not have to pay a legacy 
duty on. Do you understand me now, or ain’t I plain 
enough yet? ” 

“No, not yet. You ’ll have to make it clearer still.” 
“Faith, 1 must say you did not pick up much ’cuteness 
from your adopted daughter.” 

“Who is she? ” 

“The Greek hussy that you want to marry my nephew, 
and give a dowry to out of the estate that belongs to your 
son. I know it all, Mathew. I was n’t two hours in the 
house before my old woman brought me the story from 
Mary. Aye, stare if you like, but they all know it below 

35 


546 


LORD KILGOBEIN. 


stairs; au6 a nice way you are discussed in your own 
bouse! Getting a promise out of a poor boy in a brain 
fever, making him give a pledge in bis ravings! AVon’t it 
tell well in a court of justice, of a magistrate, a county 
gentleman, a Kearney of Kilgobbin? Ob, Matbew, Matbew, 
1 ’m ashamed of you! ” 

“Upon my oatb, you’re making me ashamed of myself 
that I sit here and listen to you,” cried be, carried beyond 
all endurance. “Abusing, aye, blackguarding me this 
last hour about a lying story that came from the kitchen. 
It ’s you that ought to be ashamed, old lady. Not, indeed, 
for believing ill of an old friend, — for that ’s nature in you, 
— but for not having common sense, just common sense 
to guide you, and a little common decency to warn you. 
Look now, there is not a word, there is not a syllable of 
truth in the whole story. Nobody ever thought of your 
nephew asking my niece to marry him; and if he did, 
she wouldn’t have him. She looks higher, and she has 
a right to look higher, than to be the wife of an Irish 
squireen.” 

“Go on, Mathew, go on. You waited for me to be as I 
am now, before you had courage for words like these.” 

“Well, I ask your pardon, and ask it in all humiliation 
and sorrow. My temper — bad luck to it ! — gets the better, 
or maybe it ’s the worse, of me at times, and I say fifty 
things that I know I don’t feel; just the wmy sailors load a 
gun with anything in the heat of an action.” 

“I ’m n6t in a condition to talk of sea-fights, Mr. Kearney, 
though I’m obliged to you all the same for trying to amuse 
me. You ’ll not think me rude if I ask you to send Kate to 
me? And please to tell Father Luke that I ’ll not see him 
this morning. My nerves have been sorely tried. One 
word before you go, Mathew Kearney; and have compas- 
sion enough not to answer me. You may be a just man 
and an honest man; you may be fair in your dealings, and 
all that your tenants say of you may be lies and calumnies; 
but to insult a poor old woman on her death-bed is cruel 
and unfeeling; and I’ll tell you more, Mathew, it’s 
cowardly and it’s — ” 

Kearney did not wait to hear what more it might be, for 


A MISERABLE MORNING. 


547 


be was already at the door, and rushed out as if he was 
escaping from a fire. 

“1 ’m glad he ’s better than they made him out,” said 
Miss Betty to herself, in a tone of calm soliloquy; “and 
he ’ll not be worse for some of the home truths 1 told him.” 
And with this she drew on her silk mittens, and arranged 
her cap composedly, while she waited for Kate’s arrival. 

As for poor Kearney, other troubles were awaiting him 
in his study, where he found his sou and Mr. Holmes, the 
lawyer, sitting before a table covered with papers. “1 have 
no head for business now,” cried Kearney. “1 don’t feel 
over well to-day; and if you want to talk to me, you ’ll have 
to put it off till to-morrow.” 

“Mr. Holmes must leave for town, my Lord,” interposed 
Dick, in his most insinuating tone, “and he only wants a 
few minutes with you before he goes.” 

“And it’s just what he won’t get. I would not see the 
Lord Lieutenant if he was here now.” 

“The trial is fixed for Tuesday, the 19th, my Lord,” 
cried Holmes, “and the national press has taken it up in 
such a way that we have no chance whatever. The verdict 
will be ‘ Guilty,’ without leaving the box; and the whole 
voice of public opinion will demand the very heaviest sen- 
tence the law can pronounce.” 

“Think of that poor fellow, O’Shea, just rising from a 
sick-bed,” said Dick, as his voice shook with agitation. 
“They can’t hang him.” 

“No, for the scoundrel Gill is alive, and will be the 
chief witness on the trial ; but they may give him two 
years with prison labor, and if they do, it will kill him.” 

“I don’t know that. I ’ve seen more than one fellow 
come out fresh and hearty after a spell. In fact, the plain 
diet and the regular work and the steady habits are won- 
derful things for a young man that has been knocking about 
in a town life.” 

“Oh, father, don’t speak that way. I know Gorman 
well, and I can swear he’d not survive it.” 

Kearney shook his head doubtingly, and muttered, 
“There ’s a great deal said about wounded pride and injured 
feelings; but the truth is, these things are like a bad colic, 


548 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


mighty hard to bear, if you like, but nobody ever dies 
of It.” 

“From all I hear about young Mr. O’Shea,” said Holmes, 
“I am led to believe he will scarcely live through an 
imprisonment.” 

‘'To be sure! Why not? At three or four-and-twenty 
we ’re all of us high-spirited and sensitive and noble- 
hearted, and we die on the spot if there ’s a word against 
our honor. It is only after we cross the line in life, wher- 
ever that be, that we become thick-skinned and hardened, 
and mind nothing that does not touch our account at the 
bank. Sure I know the theory well I Ay, and the only bit 
of truth in it all is that we cry out louder when we ’re 
young, for we are not so well used to bad treatment.” 

“ Right or wrong, no man likes to have the whole press 
of a nation assailing him, and all the sympathies of a people 
against him,” said Holmes. 

“ And what can you and your brothers in wigs do against 
that? Will all your little beguiling ways and insinuating 
tricks turn the ‘ Pike ’ and the ‘ Irish Cry ’ from what sells 
their papers? Here it is now, Mr. Holmes, and I can’t put 
it shorter. Every man that lives in Ireland knows in his 
heart he must live in hot water ; but somehow, though he 
may not like it, he gets used to it, and he finds it does him 
no harm in the end. There was an uncle of my own was in 
a passion for forty years, and he died at eight}^-six.” 

“ I wis^i I could only secure your attention, my Lord, for 
ten minutes.” 

“ And what would you do. Counsellor, if you had it? ” 

“You see, my Lord, there are some very grave questions 
here. First of all, you and your brother magistrates had no 
right to accept bail. The injury was too grave : Gill’s life, 
as the doctor’s certificate will prove, was in danger. It was 
for a judge in Chambers to decide whether bail could be 
taken. They will move, therefore, in the Queen’s Bench, 
for a mandamus — ” 

“ May I never, if you won’t drive me mad ! ” cried Kearney, 
passionately ; “ and I ’d rather be picking oakum this minute 
than listening to all the possible misfortunes briefs and law- 
yers could bring on me.” 


A MISERABLE MORNING. 


549 


“ Just listen to Holmes, father,” whispered Dick. “ He 
thinks that Gill might be got over, — that if done 'oy you 
with three or four hundred pounds, he’d either make his 
evidence so light, or he ’d contradict himself, or, better than 
all, he ’d not make an appearance at the trial ” 

“Compounding a felony I Catch me at it!” cried the 
old man, with a yell. 

“ Well, Joe Atlee will be here to-night,” continued Dick. 
“ He ’s a clever fellow at all rogueries. Will you let him see 
if it can’t be arranged? ” 

“ I don’t care who does it, so it is n’t Mathew Kearney,” 
said he, angrily, for his patience could endure no more. “ If 
you won’t leave me alone now, I ’ll go out and sit on the 
bog, and upon my conscience I won’t say that I ’ll not 
throw myself 'into a bog-hole ! ” 

There was a tone of such perfect sincerity in his speech 
that, without another word, Dick took the lawyer’s arm, and 
led him from the room. 

A third voice was heard outside as they issued forth, and 
Kearney could just make out that it was Major Lockwood, 
who was asking Dick if he might have a few minutes’ con- 
versation with his father. 

“ I don’t suspect you’ll find my father much disposed for 
conversation just now. I think if you would not mind 
making your visit to him at another time — ” 

“ Just so ! ” broke in the old man, “ if you ’re not coming 
with a strait-waistcoat, or a coil of rope to hold me down, 
1 ’d say it’s better to leave me to myself.” 

Whether it was that the Major was undeterred by these 
forbidding evidences, or that what he deemed the importance 
of his communication warranted some risk, certain it is he 
lingered at the door, and stood there where Dick and the 
law}"er had gone and left him. 

A faint tap at the door at last apprised Kearney that some 
one was without, and he hastily, half angrily, cried, “ Come 
in ! ” Old Kearney almost started with surprise as the 
Major Avalked in. 

“I’m not going to make any apology for intruding on 
you,” cried he. “ What I want to say shall be said in three 
words, and I cannot endure the suspense of not having them 


550 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


said and answered. I ’ve bad a whole night of feverish 
anxiety, and a worse morning, thinking and turning over 
the thing in my mind, and settled it must be at once, one 
way or other, for my head will not stand it.” 

“ My own is tried pretty hard, and I can feel for you,” 
said Kearney, with a grim humor. 

“ I ’ve come to ask if you ’ll give me your daughter? ” and 
his face became blood-red with the effort the words had 
cost him. 

“ Give you my daughter?” cried Kearney. 

“ I want to make her my wife, and as I know little about 
courtship, and have nobody here that could settle this affair 
for me, — for Walpole is thinking of his own concerns, — 
I’ve thought the best way, as it was the shortest, was to 
come at once to yourself : I have got a few documents here 
that will show you I have enough to live on, and to make 
a tidy settlement, and do all that ought to be done.” 

“ I ’m sure you are an excellent fellow, and I like you 
myself ; but you see. Major, a man does n’t dispose of his 
daughter like his horse, and I ’d like to hear what she would 
say to the bargain.” 

“ I suppose you could ask her? ” 

“Well, indeed, that’s true, I could ask her; but on the 
whole. Major, don’t you think the question would come 
better from yourself?” 

“ That means courtship? ” 

“ Yes, I admit it is liable to that objection, but somehow 
it’s the usual course.” 

“No, no,” said the other, slowly, “I could not manage 
that. I ’m sick of bachelor life, and I ’m ready to send in 
my papers and have done with it, but I don’t know how to 
go about the other. Not to say, Kearney,” added he, more 
boldly, “ that I think there is something confoundedly mean 
in that daily pursuit of a woman, till by dint of importunity, 
and one thing or another, you get her to like you ! What 
can she know of her own mind after three or four months of 
what these snobs call attentions? How is she to say how 
much is mere habit, how much is gratified vanity of having a 
fellow dangling after her, how much the necessity of showing 
the world she is not compromised by the cad’s solicitations? 


A MISERABLE MORNING. 


551 


Take my word for it, Kearney, my way is the best. Be able 
to go up like a man and tell the girl, ‘ It ’s all arranged. 
I ’ve shown the old cove that I can take care of you, he has 
seen that I ’ve no debts or mortgages ; I ’m ready to behave 
handsomely, what do you say yourself?’” 

“ She might say, ‘ I know nothing about you. I may 
possibly not see much to dislike, but how do 1 know I should 
like you?’” 

“And I’d sav, ‘I’m one of those fellows that are the 
same all through, to-day as I was yesterday, and to-morrow 
the same. When I ’m in a bad temper, I go out on the moors 
and walk it off, and I’m not hard to live with.’” 

“ There’s many a bad fellow a woman might like better.” 
“ All the luckier for me, then, that I don’t get her.” 

“I might say, too,” said Kearney, with a smile, “how 
much do you know of my daughter, — of her temper, her 
tastes, her habits, and her likings? What assurance have 
you that you would suit each other, and that you are not as 
wide apart in character as in country?” 

“I’ll answer for that. She’s always good-tempered, 
cheerful, and light-hearted. She ’s always nicely dressed and 
polite to every one. She manages this old house and these 
stupid bog-trotters till one fancies it a fine establishment 
and a first-rate household, Slie rides like a lion, and I’d 
rather hear her laugh than I’d listen to Patti.” 

“ I ’ll call all that mighty like being in love.” 

“ Do if you like, — but answer me my question.” 

“That is more than I’m able; but I’ll consult my 
daughter. I ’ll tell her pretty much in your own words all 
you have said to me, and she shall herself give the answer.” 
“ All right, and how soon? ” 

“ Well,"in the course of the day. Should she say that she 
does not understand being wooed in this manner, that she 
would like more time to learn something more about your- 
self, that, in fact, there is something too peremptory in this 
mode of proceeding, I would not say she was wrong.” 

“But if she saj’s yes frankly, you’ll let me know at 

once? ” 

“ I will — on the spot.” 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 

The news of Nina’s engagement to Walpole soon spread 
through the castle at Kilgobbin, and gave great satisfaction ; 
even the humbler members of the household were delighted 
to think there would be a wedding and all its appropriate 
festivity. 

When the tidings at length arrived at Miss O’Shea’s room, 
so reviving were the effects upon her spirits that the old 
lady insisted she should be dressed and carried down to the 
drawing-room, that the bridegroom might be presented to her 
in all form. 

Though Nina herself chafed at such a proceeding, and 
called it a most “insufferable pretension,” she was perhaps 
not sorry secretly at the opportunity afforded herself to let 
the tiresome old woman guess how she regarded her, and 
what might be their future relations towards eacli other. 
“Not indeed,” added she, “ that we are likely ever to meet 
again, or tl^at I should recognize her beyond a bow if we 
should.” 

As for Kearnej^, the announcement that Miss Betty was 
about to appear in public filled him with unmixed terror, and 
he muttered drearily as he went, “There’ll be wigs on the 
Green for this.” Nor was Walpole himself pleased at the 
arrangement. Like most men in his position, he could not 
be brought to see the delicacy or the propriety of being 
paraded as an object of public inspection, nor did he per- 
ceive the fitness of that display of trinkets which he had 
brought with him as presents, and the siglit of which had 
become a sort of public necessity. 

Not the least strange part of the whole procedure was 
that no one could tell where or how or with whom it 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 


553 


originated. It was like one of those movements which are 
occasionally seen in political life, where, without the direct 
intervention of any precise agent, a sort of diffused atmos- 
phere of public opinion suffices to produce results and effect 
changes that all are ready to disavow but accept of. 

The mere fact of the pleasure the prospect afforded to Miss 
Betty prevented Kate from offering opposition to what she 
felt to be both bad in taste and ridiculous. 

“That old lady imagines, I believe, that I am to come 
down like a pretendu in a French vaudeville, — dressed in 
a tail-coat, with a white tie and white gloves, and perhaps 
receive her benediction. She mistakes herself, she mistakes 
us. If there was a casket of uncouth old diamonds, or 
some marvellous old point-lace to grace the occasion, we 
might play our parts with a certain decorous hypocrisy ; 
but to be stared at through a double eye-glass by a snuffy 
old woman in black mittens, is more than one is called on 
to endure, — eh, Lockwood? ” 

“ I don’t know. I think I’d go through it all gladly to 
have the occasion.” 

“ Have a little patience, old fellow, it will all come right. 
My worthy relatives — for I suppose I can call them so now 
— are too shrewd people to refuse the offer of such a fellow 
as you. They have that native pride that demands a certain 
amount of etiquette and deference. They must not seem to 
rise too eagerly to the fly ; but only give them time, — give 
them time, Lockwood.” 

“Aye, but the waiting in this uncertainty is terrible to 
me.” 

“ Let it be certainty, then, and for very little I’ll ensure 
you ! Bear this in mind, my dear fellow, and you ’ll see how 
little need there is for apprehension. You, — and the men 
like you, — snug fellows with comfortable estates and no 
mortgages, unhampered by ties and uninfluenced by con- 
nections, are a species of plant that is rare everywhere, 
but actually never grew at all in Ireland, wliere eveiy one 
spent double his income, and seldom dared to move a step 
without a committee of relations. Old Kearney has gone 
through that fat volume of the gentry and squirearchy of 
England last night, and from Sir Simon de Lokewood, 


554 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


who was killed at Crecy, down to a certain major in the 
Carbineers, he knows 3’oa all.” 

I ’ll bet you a thousand they say No.” 

“ I’ve not got a thousand to pay if I should lose, but I ’ll 
lay a pony — two, if you like — that you are an accepted man 
this day — aye, before dinner.” 

“ If 1 only thought so ! ” 

“ Confound it, — you don’t pretend you are in love ! ” 

‘‘ I don’t know whether I am or not, but I do know howl 
should like to bring that nice girl back to Hampshire, and 
install her at the Dingle. I ’ve a tidy stable, some nice shoot- 
ing, a good trout-stream, and then I should have the prettiest 
wife in the county.” 

‘‘ Happy dog ! Yours is the real philosophy of life. The 
fellows who are realistic enough to reckon up the material 
elements of their happiness, — who have little to speculate on 
and less to unbelieve, — they are right.” 

“ If you mean that I ’ll never break my heart because I 
don’t get in for the county, that ’s true, — I don’t deny it. 
But come, tell me, is it all settled about your business? 
Has the uncle been asked ? — has he spoken ? ” 

“ He has been asked and given his consent. My dis- 
tinguished father-in-law, the Prince, has been telegraphed 
to this morning, and his reply may be here to-night or to- 
morrow. At all events, we are determined that even should 
he prove adverse, we shall not be deterred from our wishes 
by the cq,price of a parent who has abandoned us.” 

“ It ’s what people would call a love-match.” 

“ I sincerely trust it is. If her affections were not inex- 
tricably engaged, it is not possible that such a girl could 
pledge her future to a man as humble as m3^self.” 

“ That is, she is very much in love with you?’' 

“ I hope the astonishment of your question does not arise 
from its seeming difllculty of belief? ” 

“ No, not so much that, but I thought there might have 
been a little heroics, or whatever it is, on your side.” 

“ Most dull dragoon, do you not know that, so long as a 
man spoons, he can talk of his affection for a woman ; but 
that, once she is about to be his wife or is actually his wife, 
he limits his avowals to her love for him?" 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 


555 


“ I never heard that before. I say, what a swell you are 
this morning ! The cock-pheasants will mistake you for one 
of them.” 

“ Nothing can be simpler, nothing quieter, I trust, than a 
suit of dark purple knickerbockers ; and you may see that 
my thread stockings and my coarse shoes presuppose a 
stroll in the plantations, where, indeed, I mean to smoke 
my morning cigar.” 

“ She’ll make you give up tobacco, I suppose?” 

“ Nothing of the kind, — a thorough woman of the world 
enforces no such penalties as these. True free-trade is the 
great matrimonial maxim, and for people of small means it 
is inestimable. The formula may be stated thus, — ‘ Dine 
at the best houses, and give tea at your own.’ ” 

AVhat other precepts of equal wisdom Walpole was pre- 
pared to enunciate were lost to the world by a message 
informing him that Miss Betty was in the drawing-room, 
and the family assembled to see him. 

Cecil Walpole possessed a very fair stock of that useful 
quality called assurance ; but he liad no more than he needed 
to enter that large room, where the assembled family sat in 
a half-circle, and stand to be surveyed by Miss O’Shea’s eye- 
glass, unabashed. Nor was the ordeal the less trying as he 
overheard the old lady ask her neighbor, “if he was n’t the 
image of the Knave of Diamonds.” 

“ I thought you were the other man ! ” said she, curtly, as 
he made his bow. 

“ I deplore the disappointment, madam, — even though I 
do not comprehend it.” 

“ It was the picture, the photograph, of the other man I 
gaw, — a fine, tall, dark man, with long moustaches.” 

“ The fine, tall, dark man, with the long moustaches, is in 
the house, and will be charmed to be presented to you.” 

“ Aye, aye ! presented is all very fine ; but that won’t make 
him the bridegroom,” said she, with a laugh. 

“ I sincerely trust it will not, madam.” 

“ And it is you, then, are Major Walpole?” 

“Mr. Walpole, madam, — my friend Lockwood is the 
Major.” 

“To be sure. I have it right now. You are the young 


556 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


man that got into that unhappy scrape, and got the Lord 
Lieutenant turned away — ” 

“I wonder how you endure this,” burst out Nina, as she 
arose and walked angrily towards a window. 

“ I don’t think I caught what the young lady said ; but if 
it was that what cannot be cured must be endured, it is true 
enough ; and I suppose that they ’ll get over your blunder as 
they have done many another.” 

“ I live in that hope, madam.” 

“Not but it’s a bad beginning in public life ; and a stupid 
mistake hangs long on a man’s memory. You’re young, 
however, and people are generous enough to believe it might 
be a youthful indiscretion.” 

“ You give me great comfort, madam.” 

“ And now you are going to risk another venture?” 

“I sincerely trust on safer grounds.” 

“That’s what they all think. I never knew a man that 
didn’t believe he drew the prize in matrimony. Ask him, 
however, six months after he’s tied. Say, ‘What do you 
think of your ticket now?’ PAi, Mat Kearney? It doesn’t 
take twenty or thirty years’ quarrelling and disputing to- 
show one that a lottery with so many blanks is just a 
swindle.” 

A loud bang of the door, as Nina flounced out in indigna- 
tion, almost shook the room. 

“There’s a temper you’ll know more of }"et, young 
gentleman; and, take my word for it, it’s only in stage- 
plays that a shrew is ever tamed.” 

“I declare,” cried Dick, losing all patience, “I think 
Miss O’Shea is too unsparing of us all. AVe have our faults, 

I 'm sure ; but public correction will not make us more 
comfortable.” 

“ It wasn’t yo\ir comfort I was thinking of, young man ; 
and if I thought of your poor father’s, I ’d have advised him 
to put 37^011 out an apprentice. There ’s many a light busi- 
ness, — like stationery, or figs, or children’s to\"s, — and they 
want just as little capital as capacity.” 

“ Miss Betty,” said Kearney, stiffly, “ this is not the time 
nor the place for these discussions. Air. AYalpole was polite 
enough to present himself here to-day to have the honor 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 


557 


of makiog your acquaintance, and to announce his future 
marriage.” 

“■ A great event for us all, — and we ’re proud of it ! It’s 
wliat the newspapers will call a great day for the Bog of 
Allen. Eh, Mat? The Princess, — God forgive me, but 
I hn always calling her Kostigan, — but the Princess will be 
set down niece to Lord Kilgobbin ; and if you ” — and she 
addressed Walpole — “haven’t a mock title and a mock 
estate, you ’ll be the only one without them ! ” 

“ I don’t think any one will deny us our tempers,” cried 
Kearney. 

“Here’s Lockwood,” cried AAalpole, delighted to see his 
friend enter, though he as quickly endeavored to retreat. 

“Come in, Major,” said Kearney. “We’re all friends 
here. Miss O’Shea, this is Major Lockwood, of the Carbi- 
neers — Miss O’Shea.” 

Lockwood bowed stiffly, but did not speak. 

“ Be attentive to the old woman,” whispered Walpole. 
“A word from her will make your affair all right.” 

“ I have been very desirous to have had the honor of this 
introduction, madam,” said Lockwood, as he seated himself 
at her side. 

“Was not that a clever diversion I accomplished with 
‘ the Heavy ’ ? ” said Walpole, as he drew away Kearney 
and his son into a window. 

“I never heard her much worse than to-day,” said Dick. 

“I don’t know,” hesitated Kilgobbin. ‘H suspect she is 
breaking. There is none of the sustained virulence I used 
to remember of old. She lapses into half-mildness at 
moments.” 

“I own I did not catch them, nor, I ’m afraid, did Nina,” 
said Dick. “Look there! I’ll be shot, if she ’s not giving 
your friend the Major a lesson! When she performs in 
that way with her hands, you may swear she is didactic.” 

“I think I ’ll go to his relief,” said ^Yalpole; “but I own 
it ’s a case for the V. C.” 

As AYalpole drew nigh, he heard her saying, “Marry one 
of 3^our own race, and j^ou will jog on well enough. Marry 
a Frenchwoman or a Spaniard, and she ’ll lead her own life, 
and be very well satisfied; but a poor Irish girl, with a 


558 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


fresh heart and a joyous temper, — what is to become of 
her, with your dull habits and your dreary intercourse, 
your county society and your Chinese manners! ” 

“Miss O’Shea is telling me that I must not look for a 
wife among her countrywomen,” said Lockwood, with a 
touching attempt to smile. 

“What I overheard was not encouraging,” said Walpole; 
“but I think Miss O’Shea takes a low estimate of our social 
temperament.” 

“Nothing of the kind! All I say is, you ’ll do mighty 
well for each other; or, for aught I know, you might in- 
termarry with the Dutch or the Germans; but it ’s a down- 
right shame to unite your slow sluggish spirits with the 
sparkling brilliancy and impetuous joy of an Irish girl. 
That ’s a union I ’d never consent to.” 

“I hope this is no settled resolution,” said Walpole, speak- 
ing in a low whisper; “for I want to bespeak your especial 
influence in my friend’s behalf. Major Lockwood is a 
most impassioned admirer of Miss Kearney, and has 
already declared as much to her father.” 

“Come over here, Mat Kearnev! come over here this 
moment!” cried she, half wild with excitement. “What 
new piece of roguery, what fresh intrigue is this? Will 
you dare to tell me you had a proposal for Kate, for my 
own god-daughter, without even so much as telling me?” 
“My dear Miss Bett}^, be calm, be cool for one minute, 
and I ’ll t.ell you everything.” 

“Ay, when I ’ve found it out. Mat! ” 

“I profess I don’t think my friend’s pretensions are dis- 
cussed with much delicacy, time and place considered,” said 
Walpole. 

“We have something to think of as well as delicacy, 
young man; there’s a woman’s happiness to be remem- 
bered.” 

“Here it is, now, — the whole business,” said Kearney. 
“The Major there asked me yesterday to get my daughter’s 
consent to his addresses.” 

“And you never told me,” cried Miss Betty. 

“No, indeed, nor herself neither; for after I turned it 
over in my mind I began to see it would n’t do — ” 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 


559 


“How do you meau not do? ” asked Lockwood. 

“Just let me finish. What I mean is this, — if a man 
wants to marry an Irish girl, he must n’t begin by asking 
leave to make love to her — ” 

“Mat ’s right! ” cried the old lady, stoutly. 

“And, above all, he oughtn’t to think that the short cut 
to her heart is through his broad acres.” 

“Mat ’s right, — quite right! ” 

“And besides this, that the more a man dwells on his 
belongings, and the settlements, and such like, the more he 
seems to say, ‘ I may not catch your fancy in everything, I 
may not ride as boldly or dance as well as somebody else; 
but never mind, — you ’re making a very prudent match, and 
there is a deal of pure affection in the Three per Cents.’ ” 

“And I ’ll give you another reason,” said Miss Betty, 
resolutely. “Kate Kearney cannot have two husbands, 
and I ’ve made her promise to marry my nephew this 
morning.” 

“What! without any leave of mine?” exclaimed Kearnev. 

y ft/ ft/ 

“Just so. Mat. She’ll marry him if you give your con- 
sent; but whether you will or not, she ’ll never marry 
another.” 

“Is there, then, areal engagement?” whispered Walpole 
to Kearney. “Has my friend here got his answer? ” 

“He ’ll not wait for another,” said Lockwood, haughtily, 
as he arose. “I’m for town, Cecil,” whispered he. 

“So shall I be this evening,” replied Walpole, in the 
same tone. “I must hurry over to London and see Lord 
Danesbury. I’ve my troubles, too.” And so sajdng, he 
drew his arm within the Major’s, and led him away; while 
Miss Betty, with Kearney on one side of her and Dick on 
the other, proceeded to recount the arrangement she had 
made to make over the Barn and the estate to Gorman, it 
being her own intention to retire altogether from the world 
and finish her days in the “Retreat.” 

“And a very good thing to do, too,” said Kearney, who 
was too much impressed with the advantages of the project 
to remember his politeness. 

“I have had enough of it. Mat,” added she, in a lugu- 
brious tone; “and it’s all backbiting and lying and mis- 


560 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


chief-making, and what ’s worse, by the people who might 
live quietly and let others do the same ! 

“What you say is true as the Bible.” 

“It may be hard to do it. Mat Kearney; but I’ll pray 
for them in my hours of solitude, and in that blessed 
Retreat I ’ll ask for a blessing on yourself, and that your 
heart, liard and cruel and worldly as it is now, may be 
changed ; and that in your last days, — maybe on the bed 
of sickness. — when you are writhing and twisting with 
pain, with a bad heart and a worse conscience, when you ’ll 
have nobody but hirelings near you, — hirelings that will 
be robbing you before your eyes, and not waiting till the 
breath leaves you, — when even the drop of drink to cool 
your lips — ” 

“Don’t — don’t go on that wa^q Miss Betty. I ’ve a cold 
shivering down the spine of my back this minute, and a 
sickness creeping all over me.” 

“I’m glad of it. I’m glad that my words have power 
over your wicked old nature, — if it’s not too late.” 

“If it’s miserable and wretched you wanted to make me, 
don’t fret about your want of success; though, whether it 
all comes too late, I cannot tell you.” 

“We ’ll leave that to St. Joseph.” 

“Do so! do so! ” cried he, eagerly; for he had a shrewd 
suspicion he would have better chances of mercy at any 
hands than her own. 

“As for Gorman, if I find that he has any notions about 
claiming an acre of the property. I’ll put it all into Chan- 
cery, and the suit will outlive him; but if he owns he is 
entirely dependent on my bounty, I ’ll settle the Barn and 
the land on him, and the deed shall be signed the day 
he marries your daughter. People tell you that you can’t 
take your money with you into the next world. Mat Kearney; 
and a greater lie was never uttered. Thanks to the laws of 
England, and the Court of Equity in particular, it ’s the 
very thing you can do! Aye, and you can provide, besides, 
that everybody but the people that had a right to it shall 
have a share. So I say to Gorman O’Shea, beware what 
you are at, and don’t go on repeating that stupid falsehood 
about not carrying your debentures into the next world.” 


PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS. 


561 


‘‘You are a wise woman, and you know life well,” said 
be, solemnly. 

“And if I am, it’s nothing to sigh over, Mr. Kearne'^n 
One is grateful for mercies, but does not groan over them 
like rheumatism or the lumbago.” 

“Maybe I’m a little out of spirits to-day.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if you were. They tell me you sat 
over your wine, with that tall man, last night, till nigh 
one o’clock, and it ’s not at your time of life that you can 
do these sort of excesses with impunity; you had a good 
constitution once, and there ’s not much left of it.” 

“My patience, I ’m grateful to see, has not quite deserted 
me.” 

“I hope there’s other of your virtues you can be more 
sure of,” said she, rising; “for if I was asked your worst 
failing, I’d say it was your irritability.” And with a 
stern frown, as though to confirm the judicial severity of 
her words, she nodded her head to him and walked away. 

It wms only then that Kearney discovered he was left 
alone, and that Dick had stolen away, though when or how 
he could not say. 

“I’m glad the boy was not listening to her, for I’m 
downright ashamed that I bore it,” was his final reflection 
as be strolled out to take a walk in the plantation. 


36 


CHAPTER LXXX. 


A NEAV ARRIVAL. 

Though the dinner-party that day at Kilgobbin Castle was 
deficient in the persons of Lockwood and Walpole, the 
accession of Joe Atlee to the company made up in a great 
measure for the loss. He arrived shortly before dinner was 
announced; and even in the few minutes in the drawing- 
room, his gay and lively manner, his pleasant flow of small 
talk, dashed with the lightest of epigrams, and that mar- 
vellous variety he possessed, made every one delighted 
with him. 

“ I met Walpole and Lockwood at the station, and did 
my utmost to make them turn back AAuth me. You may 
laugh. Lord Kilgobbin, but in doing the honors of another 
man’s house, as I was at that moment, I deem myself with- 
out a rival.” 

“I wish with all my heart you had succeeded; there is 
nothing I like as much as a well-filled table,” said Kearney. 

“Not that their air and manner,” resumed Joe, “im- 
pressed me strongly with the exuberance of their spirits ; a 
. pair of drearier dogs 1 have not seen for some time, and I 
believe I told them so.” 

“Did they explain their gloom, or even excuse it? ” asked 
Dick. 

“Plxcept on the general grounds of coming away from 
such fascinating society. Lockwood played sulky, and 
scarcely vouchsafed a word; and as for Walpole, he made 
some high-flown speeches about his regrets and his torn 
sensibilities, — so like what one reads in a French novel 
that the very sound of them betrays unreality.” 

“But was it then so very impossible to be sorry for leav- 
ing this?” asked Nina, calmly. 


A NEW ARRIVAL. 


563 


“Certainly not for any man but Walpole.” 

“And why not Walpole?” 

“Can yon ask me? Yon who know people so well, and 
read them so clearly ; you, to whom the secret anatomy of 
the ‘ heart ’ is no mystery, and who understand how to trace 
the fibre of intense selfishness through every tissue of his 
small nature. He might be miserable at being separated 
from himself; there could be no other estrangement would 
affect 1dm.'' 

“This was not always your estimate of your/yie?it/,” said 
Nina, with a marked emphasis of the last word. 

“Pardon me, it was my unspoken opinion from the first 
hour I met him. Since then, some space of time has inter- 
vened; and though it has made no change in him, I hope 
it has dealt otherwise with me. I have at least reached the 
point in life where men not only have convictions, but 
avow them.” 

“Come, come; I can remember what precious good luck 
you called it to make his acquaintance,” cried Dick, half 
angrily. 

“I don’t deny it. I was very nigh drowning at the time, 
and it was the first plank I caught hold of. I am very 
grateful to him for the rescue; but I owe him more grati- 
tude for the opportunity the incident gave me to see these 
men in their intimacy; to know, and know thoroughly, 
what is the range, what the stamp of those minds by which 
states are ruled and masses are governed. Through Wal- 
pole T knew his master; and through the master I have 
come to know the slipshod intelligences which, composed 
of official detail. House of Commons gossip, and ‘ Times ’ 
leaders, are accepted by us as statesmen. And if — ” A 
very supercilious smile on Nina’s mouth arrested him in 
the current of his speech, and he said: “I know, of course, 

— I know the question you are too polite to ask, but which 
quivers on your lip: ‘ AVho is the gifted creature that 
sees all this incompetence and insufficiency around him? ’ 
And I am quite ready to tell you. It is .Joseph Atlee, — 
Joseph Atlee, who knows tliat when he and others like him 

— for we are a strong coterie — stop the supply of ammuni' 
tion, these gentlemen must cease firing. Let the ‘ Debats ’ 


564 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


and the ‘ Times,’ the ‘ Revue des Deux Moudes ’ and the 
‘ Saturday, ’ and a few more that I need not stop to enu- 
merate, strike work ; and let us see how much of original 
thought you will obtain from your Cabinet sages! It is 
in the clash and collision of the thinkers outside of respon- 
sibility that these world-revered leaders catch the fire that 
lights up their policy. The ‘ Times ’ made the Crimean 
blunder. The ‘ Siecle ’ created the Mexican fiasco. The 
‘ Kreutz Zeitung ’ gave the first impulse to the Schleswig- 
Holstein imbroglio; and, if I mistake not, the ‘review’ in 
the last ‘ Diplomatic Chronicle ’ will bear results of which 
he who now speaks to you will not disown the parentage.” 

“The saints be praised! here ’s dinner,” exclaimed Kear- 
ney, “or this fellow would talk us into a brain-fever. Kate 
is dining with Miss Betty again; God bless her for it,” 
muttered he, as he gave his arm to Nina, and led the 
way. 

“I ’ve got you a commission as a ‘ Peeler,’ Dick,” said 
Joe, as they moved along. “You’ll have to prove that 
you can read and write, which is more than they would ask 
of you if you were going into the Cabinet; but we live in 
an intellectual age, and we test all the cabin-boys, and it is 
only the steersman we take on trust.” 

Though Nina was eager to resent Atlee’s impertinence 
on Walpole, she could not help feeling interested and 
amused by his sketches of his travels. 

If, in speaking of Greece, he only gave the substance of 
the article he had written for the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” 
as the paper was yet unpublished, all the remarks were novel, 
and the anecdotes fresh and sparkling. The tone of light 
banter and raillery in which he described public life in 
Greece and Greek statesmen, might have lost some of its 
authority had any one remembeTed to count the hours the 
speaker had spent in Athens; and Nina was certainly 
indignant at the hazardous effrontery of the criticisms. It 
was not, then, without intention that she arose to retire 
while Atlee was relating an interesting story of brigandage; 
and he, determined to repay the impertinence 'in kind, con- 
tinued to recount his history as he arose to open the door 
for her to pass out. Her insolent look as she swept by was 


A NEW ARRIVAL. 


565 


met by a smile of admiration on bis part that actually made 
her cheek tingle with anger. 

Old Kearney dozed off gently, under the influence of 
names of places and persons that did not interest him; and 
the two young men drew their chairs to the fire, and grew 
confidential at once. 

“I think you have sent my cousin away in bad humor,” 
said Dick. 

“1 see it,” said Joe, as he slowly puffed his cigar. 
“That young lady’s head has been so cruelly turned by 
flattery of late, that the man who does not swing incense 
before her affronts her.” 

“Yes; but you went out of your way to provoke her. It 
is true she knows little of Greece or Greeks, but it offends 
her to hear them slighted or ridiculed, and you took pains 
to do both.” 

“Contemptible little country! with a mock army, a mock 
treasury, and a mock Chamber. The only thing real is 
the debt and the brigandage.” 

“But why tell her so? You actually seemed bent on 
irritating her.” 

“Quite true, — so I was. My dear Dick, you have some 
lessons to learn in life; and one of them is that, just as it 
is bad heraldry to put color on color, it is an egregious 
blunder to follow flattery by flattery. The woman who has 
been spoiled by over-admiration must be approached with 
something else as unlike it as may be; pique, annoy, irri- 
tate, outrage, but take care that you interest her. Let her 
only come to feel what a very tiresome thing mere adulation 
is, and she will one day value your two or three civil 
speeches as gems of priceless worth. It is exactly because 
1 deeply desire to gain her affections, I have begun in this 
way.” 

“You have come too late.” 

“How do you mean too late, — she is not engaged?” 

“She is engaged; she is to be married to Walpole.” 

“To Walpolel ” 

“Yes; he came over a few days ago to ask her. There 
is some question now — I don’t well understand it — about 
some family consent, or an invitation, — something, I 


566 


LOUD KILGOBBIN. 


believe, that Nina insists on, to show the world how his 
family welcome her amongst them; and it is for this he has 
gone to London, but to be back in eight or nine days, the 
wedding to take place towards the end of the mouth.” 

‘‘Is he very much in love?” 

“I should say he is.” 

“And she? Of course she could not possibly care for a 
fellow like Walpole?” 

“1 don’t see why not. He is very much the stamp of 
man girls admire.” 

“Not girls like Nina; not girls who aspire to a position 
in life, and who know that the little talents of the salon no 
more make a man of the world than the tricks of the circus 
will make a fox-hunter. These ambitious women — she is 
one of them — will marry a hopeless idiot if he can bring 
wealth and rank and a great name; but they will not take a 
brainless creature who has to work his way up in the world. 
If she has accepted Walpole, there is pique in it, or ennui^ 
or that uneasy desire of change that girls suffer from like 
a malady.” 

“I cannot tell you wh}q but I know she has accepted 
him.” 

“Women are not insensible to the value of second 
thoughts.” 

“You mean she might throw him over, — might jilt 
him? ” ' 

“T ’ll not emplo}^ the ugly word that makes the wrong it 
is only meant to indicate; but there are few of our resolves 
in life to which we might not move amendment; and the 
changed opinion a woman forms of a man before marriage 
would become a grievous injury if it happened after.” 

“But must she of necessity change? ” 

“If she marry Walpole, I should say certainly. If a girl 
has fair abilities and a strong temper, — and Nina has a 
good share of each, — she will endure faults, actual vices, in 
a man, but she ’ll not stand littleness. Walpole has nothing 
else ; and so I hope to prove to her to-morrow and the day 
after, — in fact, during those eight or ten days you tell me 
he will be absent.” 

“Will she let you? Will she listen to you? ” 


A NEW ARRIVAL. 


567 


“Not at first, — at least, not willingly or very easily; 
but I will show her, by numerous little illustrations and 
even fables, where these small people not only spoil their 
fortunes in life, but spoil life itself ; and what an irreparable 
blunder it is to link companionship with one of them. I will 
sometimes make her laugh, and 1 may have to make her 
cry ; it will not be easy, but I shall do it. I shall certainly 
make her thoughtful; and if you can do this day by day, 
so that a woman will recur to the same theme pretty much 
in the same spirit, you must be a sorry steersman. Master 
Dick, but you will know how to guide these thoughts, and 
trace the channel they shall follow.” 

“And supposing, which I do not believe, that you could 
get her to break with Walpole, what could ijou offer her? ” 

“Myself!” 

“ Inestimable boon, doubtless ; but what of fortune, — 
position or place in life? ” 

“The first Napoleon used to say that the ‘ power of the 
unknown number was incommensurable;’ and so I don’t 
despair of showing her that a man like myself may be 
anything.” 

Dick shook his head doubtingly, and the other went on: 
“In this round game we call life it is all ‘ brag.’ The 
fellow with the w^orst card in the pack, if he ’ll only risk his 
head on it, keep a bold face to the world, and his own coun- 
sel, will be sure to win. Bear in mind, Dick, that for some 
time back I have been keeping the company of these great 
swells who sit highest in the Synagogue and dictate to us 
small Publicans. I have listened to their hesitating counsels 
and their uncertain resolves; I have seen the blotted de- 
spatches and equivocal messages given, to be disavowed if 
needful ; I have assisted at those dress rehearsals where 
speech was to follow speech, and what seemed an incau- 
tious avowal by one was to be ‘ improved ’ into a bold 
declaration by another, ‘ in another place.’ In fact, my 
good friend, I have been near enough to measure the mighty 
intelligences that direct us; and if I were not a believer 
in Darwin, I should be very much shocked for what humanity 
was coming to. It is no exaggeration that I say, if you 
were to be in the Home Office and I at the Foreign Office, 


568 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


without our names being divulged, there is not a man or 
woman in England would be the wiser or the worse ; though, 
if either of us were to take charge of the engine of the 
Holyhead line, there would be a smash or an explosion 
before we reached Rugby.” 

“All that will not enable you to make a settlement on 
Nina Kostalergi.” 

“No; but I ’ll marry her all the same.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Will you have a bet on it, Dick? What will you 
wager ? ” 

“A thousand — .ten, if I had it; but I’ll give you ten 
pounds on it, which is about as much as either of us could 
pay.” 

“ Speak for yourself. Master Dick. As Robert Mafcaire 
says, ‘ Je viens de toucher mes dividendes,’ and I am in no 
want of money. The fact is, so long as a man can pay for 
certain luxuries in life he is well off; the strictly necessary 
takes care of itself.” 

“Does it? I should like to know how.” 

“With your present limited knowledge of life I doubt if 
I could explain it to you; but I will try, one of these morn- 
ings. Meanwhile let us go into the drawing-room and get 
Mademoiselle to sing for us. She will sing, I take it?” 
“Of coiu'se — if asked by you.” And there was the very 
faintest tone of sneer in the words. 

And they did go, and Mademoiselle did sing all that 
Atlee could ask her for; and she was charming in every 
way that grace and beauty and the wish to please could 
make her. Indeed, to such extent did she carry her fasci- 
nations that Joe grew thoughtful at last, and muttered to 
himself, “There is vendetta in this. It is only a woman 
knows how to make a vengeance out of her attractions.” 
“Why are you so serious, Mr. Atlee?” asked she, at last. 
“I was thinking — I mean, I was trying to think — yes, I 
remember it now,” muttered he. “I have had a letter for 
you all this time in my pocket.” 

“A letter from Greece?” asked she, impatiently. 

“No, — at least, I suspect not. It was given me as I 
drove through the bog by a barefooted boy, who had trotted 


A NEW AKRIVAL. 


569 


after the car for miles, and at length overtook us by the 
accident of the horse picking up a stone in his hoof. He 
said it was for ‘ some one at the castle,’ and I offered to 
take charge of it, — here it is ; ” and he produced a square- 
shaped envelope of common coarse-looking paper, sealed 
with red wax, and a shamrock for impress. 

“A begging-letter, 1 should say, from the outside,” said 
Dick. 

“Except that there is not one so poor as to ask aid from 
me,” added Nina, as she took the document, glanced at the 
writing, and placed it in her pocket. 

As they separated for the night, and Dick trotted up the 
stairs at Atlee’s side, he said, “I don’t think, after all, my 
ten pounds is so safe as I fancied.” 

“Don’t you? ” replied Joe. “My impressions are all the 
other way, Dick. It is her courtesy that alarms me. The 
effort to captivate where there is no stake to win, means 
mischief. She ’ll make me in love with her whether I will 
or not.” The bitterness of his tone, and the impatient bang 
he gave his door as he passed in, betrayed more of temper 
than was usual for him to display; and as Dick sought his 
room, he muttered to himself, “I ’m glad to see that these 
over-cunning fellows are sure to meet their match, and get 
beaten even at the game of their own invention.” 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT. 

It was no uncommon thing for the tenants to address peti- 
tions and complaints in writing to Kate ; and it occurred to 
Nina as not impossible that some one might have bethought 
him of entreating her intercession in their favor. The look 
of the letter, and the coarse wax, and the wu'iting, all in a 
measure strengthened this impression; and it was in the 
most careless of moods she broke the envelope, scarcely 
caring to look for the name of the writer, w’hom she w^as 
convinced must be unknown to her. 

She had just let her hair fall freely down on her neck and 
shoulders, and w'as seated in a deep chair before her fire, as 
she opened the paper and read, “Mademoiselle Kostalergi.” 
This beginning, so unlikely for a peasant, made her turn 
for the name; and she read, in a large full hand, the words 
“Daniel Donogan.” 8o complete wms her surprise, that 
to satisfy herself there was no trick or deception, she exam- 
ined the envelope and the seal, and reflected for some min- 
utes over the mode in which the document had come to her 
hands. Atlee’s story was a very credible one; nothing 
more likely than that the boy was charged to deliver the 
letter at the castle, and simply sought to spare himself so 
many miles of way ; or it might be that he was enjoined to 
give it to the first traveller he met on his road to Kilgobbiu. 
Nina had little doubt that if Atlee guessed or had reason 
to know the writer, he would have treated the letter as a 
secret missive which would give him a certain power over 
her. 

These thoughts did not take her long, and she turned once 
more to the letter. “Poor fellow^,” said she, aloud, “w’hy 
does he write to me?'’ And her own voice sent back its 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT. 


571 


surmises to her; and as she thought over him standing on 
the lonely road, his clasped hands before him, and his hair 
wafted wildly back from his uncovered head, two heavy 
tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, and dropped upon her 
neck. “I am sure he loved me; I know he loved me,” 
muttered she, half aloud. “1 have never seen in any eye 
the same expression that his wore as he lay that morning 
in the grass. It was not veneration, it was genuine adora- 
tion. Had I been a saint and wanted worship, there was 
the very offering that I craved, — a look of painful mean- 
ing, made up of wonder and devotion, a something that 
said, Take what course you may, be wilful, be wayward, be 
even cruel, I am your slave. You may not think me worth}^ 
of a thought, you may be so indifferent as to forget me 
utterly, but my life from this hour has but one spell to 
charm, one memory to sustain it. It needed not his last 
words to me to say that my image would lie on his heart 
forever. Poor fellow, / need not have been added to his 
sorrows; he has had his share of trouble without me!"' 

It was some time ere she could return to the letter, which 
ran thus : — 

“ ^Mademoiselle Kostalergi, — You once rendered me a great 
service — not alone at some hazard to yourself, but by doing what 
must have cost you sorely. It is now my turn ; and if the act of 
repayment is not equal to the original debt, let me ask you to 
believe that it taxes my strength even more than your generosity 
once taxed your own. 

“ I came here a few days since in the hope that I might see you 
before I leave Ireland forever ; and while waiting for some fortu- 
nate chance, I learned that you were betrothed and to be married 
to the young gentleman who lies ill at Kilgobbin, and whose 
approaching trial at the assizes is now the subject of so much dis- 
cussion. I will not tell you — I have no right to tell you — - the deep 
misei’y with which these tidings filled me. It was no use to teach 
my heart how vain and impossible were all my hopes with regard to 
you. It was to no purpose that I could repeat ever aloud to myself 
how hopeless my pretensions must be. My love for you had become 
a religion, and what I could deny to a hope, I could still believe. 
Take that hope away, and I could not imagine how I should face my 
daily life, how interest myself in its ambitions, and even care to 
live on. 

“ These sad confessions cannot offend vou, coming from one even 

» ' O 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


572 

as humble as I am. They are all that are left me for consolation, — - 
they will soon be all 1 shall have for memory. The little lamp in the 
lowly shrine comforts the kneeling worshi})per far more than it 
honors the saint; and the love I bear you is such as this. Forgive me 
if I have dared these utterances. To save him with whose fortunes 
your own are to be bound u]), became at once my object ; and as 1 
knew with what ingenuity and craft his ruin had been compassed, it 
re(piired all mv efforts to baffle his enemies. The Xational Press 
and the Xational Party have made a great cause of this trial, and 
determined that tenant-right should be vindicated in the person of 
this man Gill. 

“ 1 have seen enoudi of what is intended here to be aware what 

o 

mischief may be worked by hard swearing, a violent Press, and a 
jury not insensible to public opinion, — evils, if } Ou like, but evils 
that are less of our own growing than the curse ill-government has 
brought upon us. It has been decided in certain councils — whose 
decrees are seldom gainsaid — that an example shall be made of 
Captain Gorman O’Shea, and that no effort shall be spared to make 
his case a terror and a warning to Irish landowners ; how they 
attempt by ancient process of law to subvert the concessions we 
have wrung from our tyrants. 

“ A jury to find him guilty will be sworn; and let us see the judge, 
— in defiance of a verdict given from the jury-box, without a 
moment’s hesitation or the shadow of dissent, — let us see the judge 
who will dare to diminish the severity of the sentence. This is 
the language, these are the very words of those who have more of 
the rule of Ireland in their hands than the haughty gentlemen, hon- 
orable and right honorable, who sit at Whitehall. 

“ I have heard this opinion too often of late to doubt how much 
it is a fixed determination of the party ; and until now — until f 
came here, and learned what interest his fate could have for me — I 
offered no opposition to these reasonings. Since then I have be- 
stirred myself actively. I have addressed the committee here who 
have taken charge of the prosecution ; I have written to the editors 
of the chief newsj)apers ; I have even made a direct appeal to the 
leading counsel for the prosecution, and tried to persuade them that 
a victorv here mi 2 :bt cost us more than a defeat, and that the countrv 
at large, who submit with difficulty to the verdict of absolving 
juries, will rise with indignation at this evidence of a jury prepared 
to exercise a vindictive power, and actually make the law the agent 
of reprisal. I have failed in all, — utterly failed. Some reproach 
me as faint-hearted and craven ; some condescend to treat me as 
merely mistaken and misguided ; and sr/me are bold enough to hint 
that, though as a military authority I stand without rivalry, as a 
purely political adviser my counsels are open to dispute. 


AX UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT. 


573 


“ I have still a power, however, through the organization of which 
I am a chief; and by this power I have ordered Gill to appear 
before me, and, in obedience to my commands, he will sail this 
night for America. With him will also leave the two other impor- 
tant witnesses in this cause; so that the only evidence against Captain 
O’Shea will be some of those against whom he has himself instituted 
a cross charge for assault. That the prosecution can be carried on 
with such testimony need not be feared. Our Press will denounce 
the infamous arts by which these witnesses have been tampered 
with, and justice has been defeated. The insults they may hurl at 
our oppressors — for once unjustly — will furnish matter for the 
Opposition journals to inveigh against our present Government, and 
some good may come even of this. At all events, I shall have 
accomplished what I sought. I shall have saved from a prison the 
man I hate most on earth, — the man who, robbing me of what never 
could be mine, robs me of every hope, of every ambition, making my 
love as worthless as my life ! Have 1 not repaid you? Ask your 
heart which of us has done more for the other? 

“ The contract on which Gill based his right as a tenant, and which 
would have sustained his action, is now in mv hands; and I will — 
if you permit me — place it in yours. This may appear an ingenious 
device to secure a meeting with vou ; but though I long to see 
you once more, were it but a minute, I would not compass it by a 
fraud. If, then, you will not see me, I shall address the packet to 
you through the post. 

“ 1 have finished. I have told you what it most concerns you 
to know, and what chiefly regards your happiness. I have done 
this as coldly and impassively, I hope, as though I had no other part 
in the narrative than that of the friend whose friendship had a 
blessed office. I have not told you of the beating heart that hangs over 
this paper, nor will I darken one bright moment of your fortune by 
the gloom of mine. If you will write me one line, — a farewell if it 
must be, — send it to the care of Adam Cobb, ‘ Cross Keys,’ IMoate, 
wdiere I shall find it up to Thursday next. If — and oh ! how shall 
I bless you for it — if you will consent to see me, to say one word, to 
let me look on vou once more, I shall go into mv banishment with a 
bolder heart, as men go into battle with an amulet. 

“Daxiel Donogan.” 

“Shall I show this to Kate?” was the first thought of 
Nina, as she laid the letter down. “ Is it a breach of confi- 
dence to let another than myself read these lines ? Assuredly 
they were meant for my eyes alone. Poor fellow ! ” said she, 
once more aloud. “It was very noble in him to do this for 


574 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


one he could not but regard as a rival.” And then she 
asked herself how far it might consist with honor to derive 
benefit from his mistake — since mistake it was — in believ- 
ing O'Shea was her lover, and to be her future husband. 

“ There can be little doubt Donogan would never have 
made the sacrifice had he known that I am about to marry 
AValpole.” From this she rambled on to speculate on how 
far might Donogan’s conduct compromise or endanger him 
with his own party, and if — which she thought well probable 
— there was a distinct peril in what he was doing, whether 
he would have incurred that peril if he really knew the truth, 
and that it was not herself he was serving. 

The more she canvassed these doubts, the more she found 
the difficulty of resolving them ; nor indeed was there any 
other way than one, — distinctly to ask Donogan if he would 
persist in his kind intentions when he knew that the benefit 
was to revert to her cousin and not to herself. So far as 
the evidence of Gill at tlie trial was concerned, the man’s 
withdrawal was already accomplished ; but would Donogan 
be as ready to restore the lease, and would he, in fact, be as 
ready to confront the danger of all this interference, as at 
first? She could scarcely satisfy her mind how she would 
wish him to act in the contingency ! She was sincerely fond 
of Kate, she knew all the traits of honesty and truth in 
that simple character, and she valued the very qualities of 
straightforwardness and direct purpose in which she knew 
she was herself deficient. She would have liked well to 
secure that dear girl’s happiness, and it would have been 
an exquisite delight to her to feel that she had been an aid 
to her welfare ; and yet, with all this, there was a subtle 
jealousy that tortured her in thinking, “What will this man 
have done to prove his love for Where am I, and what 

are my interests in all this?” There was a poison in this 
doubt that actually extended to a state of fever. “ I must 
see him,” she said at last, speaking aloud to lierself. “I 
must let him know the truth. If what he proposes shall lead 
him to break with his party or his friends, it is well he 
should see for what and for whom he is doino* it.” 

And then she persuaded herself slie would like to hear 
Donogan talk, as once before she had heard him talk, of his 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT. 


575 


hopes and his ambitions. There was something in the high- 
sounding inspirations of the man, a lofty heroism in all he 
said, that struck a chord in her Greek nature. The cause 
that was so intensely associated with danger that life was 
always on the issue, was exactly the thing to excite her 
heart, and, like the trumpet- blast to the charger, she felt 
stirred to her inmost soul by whatever appealed to reckless 
daring and peril. “ He shall tell me what he intends to do, 
— his plans, his projects, and his troubles. He shall tell 
me of his hopes, what he desires in the future, and where he 
himself will stand when his efforts have succeeded ; and, 
oh ! ” thought she, “ are not the wild extravagances of these 
men better a thousand times than the well-turned nothings 
of the fine gentlemen who surround us? Are not their very 
risks and vicissitudes more manly teachings than the small 
casualties of the polished world? If life were all ‘salon,’ 
taste perha[)s might decide against them ; but it is not all 
‘ salon,’ or, if it were, it would be a poorer thing even than 
I think it ! ” She turned to her desk as she said this, and 
wrote : ~ 


“ Dear Mr. Donogan, — I wish to thank you in person for the 
great kindness you have shown me, though there is some mistake 
on your part in the matter. T cannot suppose you are able to come 
here openly, but if you will be in the garden on Saturday evening 
at nine o’clock, 1 shall be there to meet you. 

“ I am, very truly yours, 

“ Nina Kostalergi.” 

“Very imprudent, — scarce delicate, — perhaps, all this, 
and for a girl who is to be married to another man in some 
three weeks hence; but I will tell Cecil Walpole all when he 
returns, and if he desires to be off his engagement, he shall 
have the liberty. I have one half at least of the Bayard 
Legend; and if I cannot say lam ‘without reproach,’ I 
am certainly without fear.” 

The letter-bag lay in the hall, and Nina went down at 
once, and deposited her letter in it ; this done, she lay down 
on her bed, not to sleep, but to think over Donogan and his 
letter till daybreak. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 


THE BREAKFAST-ROOM. 

“ Strange house this ! ” said Joseph Atlee, as Nina entered 
tlie room the next morning where he sat alone at breakfast. 
“ Lord Kilgobbin and Dick were here a moment ago, and 
disappeared suddenly ; Miss Kearney for an instant, and also 
left as abruptly ; and now 3^011 have come, I most earnestly 
hope not to fly away in the same fashion.” 

“ No ; I mean to eat my breakfast, and so far to keep you 
company.” 

I thank the tea-urn for my good fortune,” said he, 
solemnly, 

*‘A tete-a-tHe with Mr. Atlee is a piece of good luck,” 
said Nina, as she sat down. “Has an^Thing occurred to 
call our hosts away?” 

“In a hoiise like this,” said he, jocularly, “where people 
are inarrjdng or giving in marriage at every turn, what may 
not happen? It ma}^ be a question of the settlement, or the 
bride cake, or white satin ‘slip,’ — if that’s the name for 
it, — the orange-flowers, or the choice of the best man, — 
who knows? ” 

“ You seem to know the whole bead-roll of wedding 
incidents.” 

“It is a dull repertoire^ after all; for whether the piece 
be melodrama, farce, genteel comedy, or harrowing tragedy, 
it has to be played by the same actors.” 

“Wliat would you have? — marriages cannot be all alike. 
There must be many marriages for things besides love, — for 
ambition, for interest, for money, for convenience.” 

“Convenience is exactly the phrase I wanted and could 
not catch.” 


THE BREAKFAST-ROOM. 


577 


“ It is not the word I wanted, nor do I think we mean the 
same thing by it.” 

“ What I mean is this,” said Atlee, with a firm voice, 
“ that when a young girl has decided in her own mind that 
she has had enough of that social bondage of the daughter, 
and cannot marry the man she would like, she will marry the 
man that she can.” 

“ And like him too,” added Nina, with a strange, dubious 
sort of smile. 

“Yes, and like him too; for there is a curious feature in 
the woman’s nature that, without any falsehood or dis- 
loyalty, permits her to like different people in different 
ways, so that the quiet, gentle, almost impassive woman 
might, if differently mated, have been a being of fervid 
temper, headstrong and passionate. If it were not for this 
species of accommodation, marriage would be a worse thing 
than it is.” 

“ I never suspected you of having made a study of the 
subject. Since when have you devoted your attention to the 
theme ? ” 

“ I could answer in the words of Wilkes, — since I have 
had the honor to know your Royal Highness ; but perhaps 
you might be displeased with the flippancy.” 

“ I should think that very probable,” said she, gravely. 

“ Don’t look so serious. Remember that I did not commit 
myself, after all.” 

“ I thought it was possible to discuss this problem without 
a personality.” 

“ Don’t you know that, let one deal in abstractions as long 
as he will, he is only skirmishing around special instances? 
It is out of what I glean from individuals I make up my 
generalities.” 

“ Am I to understand by this that I have supplied you 
with the material of one of these reflections?” 

“ You have given me the subject of many. If I were to 
tell you how often I have thought of you, I could not answer 
for the words in which I might tell it.” 

“ Do not tell it, then.” 

“ I know — I am aware — I have heard since I came here 


37 


578 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


that there is a special reasou why you could not listen 
to me.” 

And being so, why do you propose that I should hear 
you ? ” 

I will tell you,” said he, with an earnestness that almost 
startled her, — “1 will tell you, because there are things on 
which a doubt or an equivocation is actually maddening ; 
and 1 will not, 1 cannot believe that you have accepted 
Cecil Walpole.” 

“ Will you please to say why it should seem so incre- 
dible?” 

“ Because I have seen you not merely in admiration, and 
that admiration would be better conveyed by a stronger 
word ; and because I have measured you with others 
infinitely beneath you in every way, and who are yet soar- 
ing into very high regions indeed ; because I have learned 
enough of the world to know that alongside of — often 
above — the influence that men are wielding in life by their 
genius and their capacity, there is another power exercised 
by women of marvellous beauty, of infinite attractions, and 
exquisite grace, which sways and moulds the fate of man- 
kind far more than cabinets and councils. There are not 
above half a dozen of these in Europe, and you might be 
one added to the number.” 

‘‘ Even admitting all this, — and I don’t see that I should 
go so far, — it is no answer to iny question.” 

“ Must I then say there can be no — not companionship, 
that’s not the word; no, I must take the French expres- 
sion, and call it solidarite — there can be no solidarite of 
interests, of objects, of passions, or of hopes between people 
so widely dissevered as you and MAlpole? I am so con- 
vinced of this that still I can dare to declare I cannot 
believe you could marry him.” 

“And if I were to tell vou it were true?” 

“ I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the 
mere mention of to-morrow w'ould offend you. It is no 
disparagement of Walpole to say he is unworthy of }"ou, for 
who w^ould be w'orthy? but the presumption of his daring is 
enough to excite indignation, — at least, I feel it such. 
How he could dare to link his supreme littleness wdth 


THE BREAKFAST-ROOM. 


579 


consummate perfection ; to freight the miserable barque 
of his fortunes with so precious a cargo ; to encounter the 
feeling, — and there is no escape for it, — ‘I must drag that 
woman down, not alone into obscurity, but into all the sor- 
did meanness of a small condition, that never can emerge 
into anything better ’ ! He cannot disguise from himself 
that it is not within his reach to attain power or place 
or high consideration. Such men make no name in life ; 
they leave no mark on their time. They are heaven-born 
subordinates, and never refute their destiny. Does a woman 
with ambition — does a woman conscious of her own great 
merits — condescend to ally herself, not alone with small 
fortune, — that might be borne, — but with the smaller asso- 
ciations that make up these men’s lives, — with the peddling 
efforts to mount even one rung higher of that crazy little 
ladder of their ambition, to be a clerk of another grade, 
a creature of some fifty pounds more, a being in an upper 
office ? ” 

“ And the Prince, — for he ought to be at least a Prince 
who should make me the offer of his name, — whence is he 
to come, Mr. Atlee?” 

“ There are men who are not born to princely station, 
who by their genius and their determination are just as 
sure to become famous, and who need but the glorious prize 
of such a woman’s love — No, no, don’t treat what I say 
as rant and rodomontade ; these are words of sober sense 
and seriousness.” 

“Indeed!” said she, with a faint sigh. “So that it 
really amounts to this, — that I shall actually have missed 
my whole fortune in life, — thrown myself away, — all be- 
cause I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.” 

Nothins: less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self- 
possession could have sustained this speech unabashed. 

“ You have only said what my heart has told me many 
a day since.” 

“ Ifiit you seem to forget,” added she, with a very faint 
curl of scorn on her lip, “ that I had no more to guide 
me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s affection than that of 
his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily believe 
in the latter than the former.” 


580 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ Believe in both,” cried he, warmly. “ If I have con- 
quered difficulties in life, if I have achieved some successes, 
— now for a passing triumph, now for a moment of grati- 
fied vanity, now for a mere caprice, — try me by a mere 
hope — I only plead for a hope — try me by hope of 
being one day worthy of calling that hand my own.” 

As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand ; but she with- 
drew it coldly and slowly, saying, “ 1 have no fancy to 
make myself the prize of any success in life, political or 
literary ; nor can I believe that the man who reasons in 
this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,” 
added she, more gravely, “your memory may not be as 
good as mine, and you will pardon me if I remind you that, 
almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of friend- 
ship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. 
AVe agreed that each of us claimed for their native laud the 
mythical Bohemia, and we agreed, besides, that the natives 
of that country are admirable colleagues, but not good 
partners.” 

“ You are not quite fair in this,” he began ; but before 
he could say more, Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and 
cried out: “It’s all true. The people are in wild excite- 
ment, and all declare that they will not let him be taken. 
Oh! I forgot,” added he. “You were not here when my 
father and I were called away by the despatch from the 
police-station, to say that Donogan has been seen at 
Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog. Of 
course, this is mere rumor ; but the constabulary are" deter- 
mined to capture him, and Curtis has written to inform 
my father that a party of police will patrol the grounds 
here this evening.” 

“And if they should take him, what would happen, — to 
him, I mean?” asked Nina, coldly. 

“ An escaped convict is usually condemned to death ; but 
I suppose they would not hang him,” said Dick. 

“ Hang him ! ” cried Atlee ; “ nothing of the kind. Mr. 
Gladstone would present him with a suit of clothes, a ten- 
pound note, and a first-class passage to America. He 
would make a ‘healing measure’ of him.” 

^ “ I must say, gentlemen,’ said Nina, scornfully, “ you can 
discuss your friend’s fate with a marvellous equanimity.” 


THE BREAKFAST-ROOM. 


581 


“ So we do,” rejoined Atlee. “ He is another Bohemian.” 
“ Don’t say so, sir,” said she, passionately. “The men 
who put their lives on a venture — and that venture not a 
mere gain to themselves — are in no wise the associates of 
those poor adventurers who are gambling for their daily 
living. He is a rebel, if you like ; but he believes in 
rebellion. How much do you believe in, Mr. Atlee?” 

“I say, Joe, you are getting the worst of this discussion. 
Seriously, however, I hope they ’ll not catch poor Donogan ; 
and my father has asked Curtis to come over and dine here, 
and I trust to a good fire and some old claret to keep him 
quiet for this evening, at least. We must not molest the 
police ; but there ’s no great harm done if we mislead 
them.” 

“ Once in the drawing-room, if Mademoiselle Kostalergi 
will only condescend to aid us,” added Atlee, “I think 
Curtis will be more than a chief constable if he will be- 
think him of his duty.” 

“ You are a strange set of people, you Irish,” said Nina, 
as she walked away. “Even such of you as don’t want 
to overthrow the Government are always ready to impede 
its march and contribute to its difficulties.” 

“ She only meant that for an impertinence,” said Atlee, 
after she left the room ; “but she was wonderfully near the 
truth, though not truthfully expressed.” 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 

There was but one heavy heart at the diuner-table that day ; 
but Nina’s pride was proof against any disclosure of suffering, 
and, though she was tortured by anxiety and fevered with 
doubt, none — not even Kate — suspected that any care 
weighed on her. 

As for Kate herself, her happiness beamed in every line 
and lineament of her handsome face. The Captain — to 
give him the name by which he was known — had been up 
that day, and partaken of an afternoon tea with his aunt and 
Kate. Her spirits were excellent, and all the promise of the 
future was rose-colored and bright. The little cloud of what 
trouble the trial might bring was not suffered to darken the 
cheerful meeting, and it was the one only bitter in their 
cup. 

To divert Curtis from this theme, on which, with the accus- 
tomed mal a 2?ropos of an awkward man, he wished to talk, 
the young men led him to the subject of Donogan and his 
party. 

“I believe we’ll take him this time,” said Curtis. “He 
must have some close relations with some one about Moate 
or Kilbeggan, for it is remarked he cannot keep away from 
the neighborhood ; but who are his friends, or what they are 
meditating, w^e cannot guess.” 

“ If wdiat Mademoiselle Kostalergi said this morning 
be correct,” remarked Atlee, “conjecture is unnecessary. 
She told Dick and myself that every Irishman is at heart 
a rebel.” 

“ I said more or less of one, Mr. Atlee, since there are 
some who have not the courage of their opinions.” 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


583 


“ I hope you are gratified by the emeudation,” whispered 
Dick; and then added aloud, “ Douogaii is uot one of 
these.” 

“ He ’s a consummate fool,” cried Curtis, bluntly. “ He 
thinks the attack of a police-barrack or the capture of a few 
firelocks will revolutionize Ireland.” 

“ He forgets that there are twelve thousand police, officered 
by such men as yourself. Captain,” said Nina, gravely. 

“ AVell, there might be worse,” rejoined Curtis, doggedly, 
for he was not quite sure of the sincerity of the speaker. 

“What will you be the better of taking him?” said Kil- 
gobbin. “ If the whole tree be pernicious, where’s the use 
of plucking one leaf off it?” 

“ The Captain has nothing to do with that,” said Atlee, 
“ any more than a hound has to discuss the morality of fox- 
hunting, — his business is the pursuit.” 

“ I don’t like your simile, Mr. Atlee,” said Nina, while she 
whispered some words to the Captain, and drew him in this 
way into a confidential talk. 

“ I don’t mind him at all. Miss Nina,” said Curtis ; “ he ’s 
one of those fellows on the Press, and they are always say- 
ing impertinent things to keep their talents in wind. I ’ll 
tell you, in confidence, how wrong he is. I have just had a 
meeting with the Chief Secretary, who told me that the 
Popish bishops are not at all pleased with the leniency of the 
Government ; that whatever ‘ healing measures ’ Mr. Glad- 
stone contemplates ought to be for the Church and the 
Catholics; that the Fenians or the Nationalists are the 
enemies of the Holy Father; and that the time has come for 
the Government to hunt them down, and give over the rule 
of Ireland to the Cardinal and his party.” 

“ That seems to me very reasonable and very logical,” 
said Nina. 

“ AVell, it is and it is not. If you want peace in the 
rabbit-warren, you must banish either the rats or the rabbits ; 
and I suppose either the Protestants or the Papists must 
have it their own way here.” 

“d’hen you mean to capture this man? ” 

“We do, — we are determined on that. And, what’s 
more, 1 ’d hang him if I had the power.” 


584 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“ And why? ” 

“ Just because he is n’t a bad fellow ! There ’s no use in 
hanging a bad fellow in Ireland, — it frightens nobody ; but 
if you hang a respectable man, a man that has done gener- 
ous and fine things, it produces a great effect on society, and 
is a terrible example.” 

“ There may be a deep wisdom in what you say.” 

“Not that they’ll mind me, for all that. It’s the men 
like myself. Miss Nina, who know Ireland well, who know 
every assize town in the country, and what the juries will do 
in each, are never consulted in England. They say, ‘ Let 
Curtis catch hini'^ — that’s his business.’” 

“ And how will you do it? ” 

“ I ’ll tell you. I have n’t men enough to watch all the 
roads ; but I ’ll take care to have my people where he ’s least 
likely to go, that is, to the north. He ’s a cunning fellow is 
Dan, and he ’d make for the Shannon if he could ; but now 
that he knows we ’re after him, he ’ll turn to Antrim or 
Derry. He’ll cut across Westmeath, and make north, if he 
gets away from this.” 

“ That is a very acute calculation of yours ; and where do 
you suspect he may be now, — I mean, at this moment we ’re 
talking?” 

“ He’s not three miles from where we ’re sitting,” said he, 
in a low whisper, and a cautious glance round the table. 
“He’s hid in the bog outside. There’s scores of places 
there a man could hide in, and never be tracked ; and 
there ’s few fellows would like to meet Donovan single- 
handed. He ’s as active as a rope-dancer, and he ’s as 
courageous as the devil.” 

“ It would be a pity to hang such a fellow.” 

“ There ’s plenty more of the same sort, — not exactly as 
good as him, perhaps, for Dan was a gentleman once.” 

“And is, probably, still?” 

“ It would be hard for him, with the rapscallions he has to 
live with, and not five shillings in his pocket, besides.” 

“ I don’t know, after all, if you ’ll be happier for giving 
him up to the law. He may have a mother, a sister, a wife^ 
or a sweetheart.” 

“ He may have a sweetheart, but I know he has none of 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


585 


the others. He said, in the dock, that no man could quit 
life at less cost, — that there was n’t one to grieve after 
him.” 

“ Poor fellow ! that was a sad confession.” 

“We’re not all to turn Fenians, Miss Nina, because 
we ’re only children and unmarried.” 

“ Y^ou are too clever for me to dispute with,” said she, in 
affected humility; “but I like greatly to hear you talk of 
Ireland. Now, what number of people have you here?” 

“ I have my orderly, and two men to patrol the demesne ; 
but to-morrow we ’ll draw the net tighter. We ’ll call in all 
the party from Moate. and, from information I have got, 
we ’re sure to track him.” 

“What confidences is Curtis making with Mademoiselle 
Nina? ” said Atlee, who, though affecting to join the general 
conversation, had never ceased to watch them. 

“ The Captain is telling me how he put down the Fenians 
in the rising of ’61,” said Nina, calmly. 

“ And did he? T say, Curtis, have you really suppressed 
rebellion in Ireland ? ” 

“No; nor won’t, Mr. Joe Atlee, till we put down the 
rascally Press, — the unprincipled penny-a-liners, that write 
treason to pay for their dinner.” 

“ Poor fellows ! ” replied Atlee. “ Let us hope it does not 
interfere with their digestion. But seriously. Mademoiselle, 
does it not give you a great notion .of our insecurity here in 
Ireland when you see to what we trust law and order.” 

“ Never mind him, Curtis.” said Kilgobbin. “ When these 
fellows are not saying sharp things, they have to be silent.” 
While the conversation went briskly on, Nina contrived to 
glance unnoticed at her watch, and saw that it wanted only 
a quarter of an hour to nine. Nine was the hour she had 
named to Donogan to be in the garden, and she already 
trembled at the danger to which she had exposed him. She 
reasoned thus: So reckless and fearless is this man, that, 
if he should have come determined to see me, and I do 
not go to meet him, he is quite capable of entering the 
house boldly, even at the cost of being captured. The 
very price he would have to pay for his rashness would be 
its temptation. 


586 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


A sudden cast of seriousness overcame her as she thus 
thought ; and Kate, perceiving it, rose at once to retire. 

“You Avere not ill, dearest Nina? I saw you grow pale, 
and I fancied for a moment you seemed faint.” 

“No; a mere passing weakness. I shall lie down, and 

be better presently.” 

“And then you’ll come up to aunt’s room, — I call god- 
mother aunt now, — and take tea with G^orman and us all. 

“Yes, I’ll do that after a little rest. I’ll take half an 
hour or so of cjuiet,” said she, in broken utteiances. I 
suppose the gentlemen will sit over their wine ; theie s no 
fear of their breaking up.” 

“Very \\XX\q fear, indeed,” said Kate, laughing at the 
word. “ Papa made me give out some of his rare old 41 
wine to-day, and they’re not likely to leave it.” 

“ By-by, then, for a little while,” said Nina, dreamily, 
for her thoughts had gone off on another track. “ I shall 
join you later on.” 

Kate tripped gayly up the stairs, singing pleasantly as 
she Avent, for hers Avas a happy heart and a hopeful. 

Nina lingered for a moment Avith her hand on the banister, 
and then hurried to her room. 

It was a still cold night of deep winter, a A^ery faint cres- 
cent of a new moon AA^as low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, 
slightly crisped with frost, coA^ered the ground. Nina 
opened her windoAv and looked out. All was still and quiet 
without, — not a twig moA^ed. She bent her ear to listen, 
thinking that on the frozen ground a step might perhaps be 
heard, and it was a relief to her anxiety when she heard 
nothing. The chill, cold air that came in through the win- 
dow AA'arned her to muffle herself well, and she drew the 
hood of her scarlet cloak OA^er her head. Strong-booted, 
and Avith warm gloA^es, she stood for a moment at her door 
to listen, and, finding all quiet, she slowly descended the 
stairs and gained the hall. She started affrighted as she 
entered, thinking there AA^as some one seated at the table ; 
but she rallied in an instant, as she saw it was only the loose 
horseman’s coat, or cloak, of the chief constable, which, 
lined with red, and wnth the gold-laced cap beside it, made 
up the delusion that alarmed her. 


THE GAKDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


587 


It was not an easy task to withdraw the heavy bolts and 
bars that secured the massive door, and even to turn the 
heavy key in the lock required an effort 5 but she succeeded 
at length, and issued forth into the open. 

“How I hope he has not come! how I pray he has not 
ventured 1 ” said she to herself, as she walked along. “ Leave- 
takings are sad things, and why incur one so full of peril 
and misery too? When I wrote to him, of course I knew 
nothing of his danger, and it is exactly his danger will make 
him come ! ” She knew of others to whom such reasoniiuis 
would not have applied, and a scornful shake of the head 
showed that she would not think of them at such a moment. 
The sound of her own footsteps on the crisp ground made 
her once or twice believe she heard some one coming ; and as 
she stopped to listen, the strong beating of her heart could 
be counted. It was not fear, — at least not fear in the sense 
of a personal danger, — it was that high tension which great 
anxiety lends to the nerves, exalting vitality to a state in 
wdiich a sensation is as powerful as a material influence. 

She ascended the steps of the little terraced mound of the 
rendezvous, one by one, overwhelmed almost to fainting by 
some imagined analogy with the scaffold, which might be the 
fate of him she was going to meet. 

He was standing under a tree, his arms crossed on his 
breast, as she came up. The moment she appeared, he 
rushed to meet her, and, throwing himself on one knee, he 
seized her hand and kissed it. 

“ Do you know your danger in being here? ’’she asked, 
as she surrendered her hand to his grasp. 

“ I know it all, and this moment repays it tenfold.” 

“ You cannot know the full extent of the peril ; you can- 
not know that Captain Curtis and his people are in the 
castle at this moment, that they are in full cry after you, 
and that every avenue to this spot is watched and guarded.” 

“ What care I ! Have I not this?” And he covered her 
hand with kisses. 

“ Every moment that you are here increases your danger, 
and if my absence should become known, there will be a 
search after me. I shall never forgive myself if my folly 
should lead to your being captured.” 


588 


LOKD KILGOBBIN. 


“ If I could but feel my fate was linked with yours, Ikl 
give my life for it williugly.” 

“ It was not to listen to such words as these I came here.’’ 
“ Remember, dearest, they are the last confessions of one 
you shall never see more. They are the last cry of a heart 
that wdll soon be still forever.” 

“No, no, no!” cried she, passionately. “There is life 
enough left for you to win a worthy name. Listen to me 
calmly now : I have heard from Curtis within the last hour 
all his plans for your capture ; I know where his patrols are 
stationed, and the roads they are to watch.” 

“ And did you care to do this? ” said he, tenderly. 

“ I would do more than that to save you.” 

“ Oh, do not say so 1 ” cried he, wildly, “ or you will give 
me such a desire to live as will make a coward of me.” 

“ Curtis suspects you will go northward ; either he has 
had information, or computes it from what you have done 
already.” 

“ He is wu’ong, then. When I go hence, it shall be to 
the Court House at Tullamore, where I mean to give myself 
up.” 

“ As what? ” 

“As what I am, — a rebel, convicted, sentenced, and 
escaped, and still a rebel.” 

“ You do not, then, care for life? ” 

“ Do I not, for such moments of life as this I ” cried he, 
as with a wild rapture he kissed her hand again and again. 

“ And were 1 to ask you, you would not try to save your 
life?” 

“ To share that life with you there is not anything I would 
not dare. To live and know you were another’s is more than 
I can face. Tell me, Nina, is it true you are to be the wife 
of this soldier? I cannot utter his name.” 

“ I am to be married to Mr. Walpole.” 

“What! to that contemptuous young man you have 
already told me so much of? How have they brought you 
down to this?” 

“There is no thought of bringing down; his rank and 
place are above my own, — he is by family and connection 
superior to us all.” 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


589 


“ And what is he, or how does he aspire to you? Is the 
vulgar security of competence to live on, — is that enough for 
one like you? Is the well-balanced good-breeding of common 
politeness enough to fill a heart that should be fed on pas- 
sionate devotion? You may link yourself to mediocrity, but 
can you humble your nature to resemble it? Do you believe 
you can plod on the dreary road of life without an impulse 
or an ambition, or blend your thoughts with those of a man 
w'ho has neither?” 

She stood still and did not utter a word. 

“ There are some — I do not know if you are one of them 
— who have an almost shrinking dread of poverty.” 

“ I am not afraid of poverty.” 

“ It has but one antidote, I know, — intense love! The 
all-powerful sense of living for another begets indifference to 
the little straits and trials of narrow fortune, till the mind at 
last comes to feel how much there is to live for beyond the 
indulgence of vulgar enjoyments ; and if, to crown all, a 
high ambition be present, there will be an ecstasy of bliss no 
'words can measure.” 

“ Have you failed in Ireland? ” asked she, suddenly. 

“ Failed, so far as to know that a rebellion will only 
ratify the subjection of the country to England ; a recon- 
quest would be slavery. The chronic discontent that burns 
in every peasant heart will do more than the appeal to arms. 
It is slow, but it is certain.” 

And where is your part? ” 

“ My part is in another land; my fortune is linked with 
America, — that is, if I care to have a fortune.” 

“ Come, come, Donogan,” cried she, calling him inadver- 
tently by his name, “ men like you do not give up the battle 
of life so easily. It is the very essence of their natures to 
resist pressure and defy defeat.” 

“ So I could; so I am ready to show myself. Give me 
but hope. There are high paths to be trodden in more than 
one region of the globe. There are great prizes to be 
wrestled for, but it must be by him who would sliare them 
with another. Tell me, Nina,” said he, suddenly, low'ering 
his voice to a tone of exquisite tenderness, “ have you never, 
as a little child, plaj’ed at that game of w'hat is called seek- 


590 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


ing your fortune, — wandered out into some thick wood or 
along a winding rivulet, to meet whatever little incident 
imagination might dignify into adventure ; and in the chance 
heroism of your situation have you not found an intense 
delight? And if so in childhood, why not see if adult years 
cannot renew the experience? Why not see if the great 
world be not as dramatic as the small one? I should say it 
is still more so. I know you have courage.” 

“And what will courage do for me? ” asked she, after a 
pause. 

“For you, not much;' for me, everything.” 

“I do not understand you.” 

“ I mean this, — that if that stout heart could dare the 
venture and trust its fate to me, — to me, poor, outlawed, 
and doomed, — there would be a grander heroism in a girl’s 
nature than ever found home in a man’s.” 

“And what should 1 be?” 

“My wife within an hour; my idol while I live,” 

“There are some who would give this another name than 
courage,” said she, thoughtfully. 

“ Let them call it what they will, Nina. Is it not to the 
unbounded tmst of a nature that is above all others that I, 
poor, unknown, ignoble as 1 am, appeal when 1 ask. Will 
you be mine? One word, — only one, — or, better still — ” 
He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and, drawing her 
head towards his, kissed her cheek rapturously. 

With wild and fervent words, he now told her rapidly that 
he had come prepared to make her the declaration, and had 
provided everything, in the event of her compliance, for 
their flight. By an unused path through the bog they could 
gain the main road to Maryborough, where a priest, well 
known in the Fenian interest, would join them in marriage. 
The officials of the railroad were largely imbued with the 
nationalist sentiment, and Donogan could be sure of safe 
crossing to Kilkenny, where the members of the party were 
in great force. 

In a very few words he told her how, by the mere utterance 
of his name, he could secure the faithful services and the 
devotion of the people in every town or village of the king- 
dom. “The English have done this for us,” cried he, “and 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


591 


we thank them for it. , They have popularized rebellion in a 
way that all our attempts could never have accomplished. 
How could I, for instance, gain access to those little gath> 
erings at fair or market, in the yard before the chapel, or 
the square before the court-house; how could 1 be able to 
explain to those groups of country people what we mean by 
a rising in Ireland, — what we purpose by a revolt against 
England, — how it is to be carried on, or for whose benefit, 
— what the prizes of success, what the cost of failure? Yei 
the English have contrived to embody all these in one word, 
and that word my name! ” 

There was a certain artifice, there is no doubt, in the way 
in which this poorly clad and not distinguished-looking man 
contrived to surround himself with attributes of power and 
influence; and his self-reliance imparted to his voice, as he 
spoke, a tone of confidence that was actually dignified. And, 
besides this, there was personal daring; for his life was on 
the hazard, and it was the very contingenc}’' of which he 
seemed to take the least heed. 

Not less adroit, too, was the way in which he showed 
what a shock and amazement her conduct would occasion in 
that world of her acquaintances, — that world which had 
hitherto regarded her as essentially a pleasure-seeker, self- 
indulgent and capricious. “ ‘ Which of us all,’ will they say, 

‘ could have done what that girl has done? Which of us, 
having the world at her feet, her destiny at her veiT bidding, 
would go off and brave the storms of life out of the heroism 
of her own nature? How we all misread her nature! how 
wrongfully and unfairly we judged her! In what utter 
ignorance of her real character was every interpretation we 
made! How scornfully has she, by one act, replied to all 
our misconstruction of her! What a sarcasm on all our 
worldliness is her devotion! ’ ” 

He was eloquent, after a fashion, and he had, above most 
men, the charm of a voice of singular sweetness and melody. 
It was clear as a bell, and he could modulate its tones till, 
like the drip, drip of water on a rock, they fell one by one 
upon the ear. IMasses had often been moved by the power 
of his words, and the mesmeric influence of persuasiveness 
was a gift to do him good service now. 


592 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


There was much in the man that she liked. She liked his 
nigged boldness and determination; she liked his contempt 
for danger and his self-reliance; and, essentially, she liked 
how totally different he w^as to all other men. He had not 
their objects, their hopes, their fears, and their ways. To 
share the destiny of such a man was to ensure a life that 
could not pass unrecorded. There might be storm, and 
even shipwreck, but there was notoriety — perhaps even 
fame ! 

And how mean and vulgar did all the others she had 
known seem by comparison with him, — how contemptible 
the polished insipidity of Walpole, how artificial the neatly 
turned epigrams of Atlee! How would either of these have 
behaved in such a moment of danger as this man’s? Every 
minute he passed there w^as another peril to his life; and yet 
he had no thought for himself, — his whole anxiety was to 
gain time to appeal to her. He told her she was more to 
him than his ambition; she saw herself she w^as more to him 
than life. The whirlwind rapidity of his eloquence also 
moved her, and the varied arguments he addressed, now to 
her heroism, now to her self-sacrifice, now to the power of 
her beauty, now to the contempt she felt for the inglorious 
lives of commonplace people, — the ignoble herd who passed 
unnoticed. All these swayed her; and after a long interval, 
in which she had heard him without a word, she said, in a 
low murmur to herself, “I will do it.” 

Donogan clasped her to his heart as she said it, and held 
her some seconds in a fast embrace. “At last I know 
what it is to love,” cried he, with rapture. 

“Look there!” cried she, suddenly disengaging herself 
from his arm. “They are in the drawing-room already. 
I can see them as they pass the windows. I must go back, 
if it be for a moment, as I should be missed.” 

“Can I let you leave me now^?” he said; and the tears 
were in his eyes as he spoke. 

“I have given you my word, and you may trust me,” said 
she, as she held out her hand. 

“I was forgetting this document; this is the lease or 
the agreement I told you of.” Slie took it, and hurried 
away. 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


593 


In less than five minutes afterwards she was among the 
company in the drawing-room. 

“Here have I been singing a rebel ballad, Nina,” said 
Kate, “ and not knowing the w^hile it was Mr. Atlee who 
wrote it.” 

“What! Mr. Atlee,” cried Nina, “is the ‘ Time to begin’ 
yours?” And then, without waiting for an answer, she 
seated herself at the piano, and, striking the chords of the 
accompaniment with a wild and vigorous hand, she sang, — 

“ If the morneut is come and the hour to need us ; 

If we stand man to man, like kindred and kin ; 

If we know we have one who is ready to lead us, — 

What want we for more than the word to begin ^ ” 

The wild ring of defiance in v/hich her clear, full voice 
gave out these words seemed to electrify all present, and 
to a second or two of perfect silence a burst of applause 
followed, that even Curtis, with all his loyalty, could not 
refrain from joining. 

“Thank God you ’re not a man. Miss Nina! ” cried he, 
fervently. 

“I ’m not sure she ’s not more dangerous as she is,” said 
Lord Kilgobbin. “There’s people out there in the bog, 
starving and half-naked, would face the Queen’s Guards if 
they only heard her voice to cheer them on. Take my word 
for it, rebellion would have died out long ago in Ireland if 
there wasn’t the woman’s heart to warm it.” 

“If it were not too great a liberty. Mademoiselle Kosta- 
lergi,” said Joe, “I should tell you that you have not caught 
the true expression of my song. The brilliant bravura in 
which you gave the last line, immensely exciting as it was, 
is not correct. The whole force consists in the concen- 
trated power of a fixed resolve, — the passage should be 
subdued.” 

An insolent toss of the head was all Nina’s reply; and 
there was a stillness in the room, as, exchanging looks with 
each other, the ditferent persons there expressed their amaze- 
ment at Atlee’s daring. 

“Who’s for a rubber of whist?” said Lord Kilgobbin, 

38 


594 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


to relieve the awkward pause. “Are you, Curtis? Atlee, 
I know, is ready.” 

“Here is all prepared,” said Dick. “Captain Curtis told 
me before dinner that he would not like to go to bed till he 
had his sergeant’s report; and so I have ordered a broiled 
bone to be ready at one o’clock, and we ’ll sit up as late as 
he likes after.” 

“Make the stake pounds and fives,” cried Joe, “and I 
should pronounce your arrangements perfection.” 

“With this amendment,” interposed my Lord, “that 
nobody is expected to pay ! ” 

“I say, Joe,” whispered Dick, as they drew nigh the 
table, “my cousin is angry with you; why have you not 
asked her to sing?” 

“Because she expects it; because she’s tossing over the 
music yonder to provoke it; because she ’s in a furious rage 
with me: that will be nine points of the game in my favor,” 
hissed he out between his teeth. 

“You are utterly wu'ong; you mistake her altogether.” 

“Mistake a woman! Dick, will you tell me what I do 
know, if 1 do not read every turn and trick of their tortuous 
nature? They are occasionally hard to decipher when 
they ’re displeased. It ’s very big print, indeed, wLen 
they’re angry.” 

“You ’re off, are you?” asked Nina, as Kate was about 
to leave. 

“Yes; I’m going to read to him.” 

“To read to him!” said Nina, laughing. “How nice it 
sounds, when one sums up all existence in a pronoun! 
Good-night, dearest, — good-night!” and she kissed her 
twice. And then, as Kate reached the door, she ran towards 
her, and said, “Kiss me again, my dearest Kate! ” 

“I declare you have left a tear upon my cheek,” said 
Kate. 

“It w^as about all I could give you as a wedding present,” 
muttered Nina, as she turned aw^ay. 

“Are you come to study whist, Nina?” said Lord Kil- 
gobbin, as she drew' nigh the table. 

“No, my Lord; I have no talent for games, but I like to 
look at the players.” 


THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


595 


Joe touched Dick with his foot, and shot a cunning glance 
towards him, as though to say, “Was 1 not correct in all I 
said ? ” 

“Could n’t you sing us something, my dear? we ’re not 
such infatuated gamblers that weTl not like to hear you, — 
eh, Atlee? ” 

“Well, my Lord, I don’t know; I’m not sure, — that is, 
I don’t see how a memory for trumps is to be maintained 
through the fascinating charm of Mademoiselle’s voice. 
And as for cards, it’s enough for Miss Kostalergi to be in 
the room to make one forget not only the cards, but the 
Fenians.” 

“If it was only out of loyalty, then, I should leave you! ” 
said she, and walked proudly away. 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 


NEXT MORNING. 

The whist-party did not break up till nigh morning. The 
sergeant had once appeared at the drawing-room to announce 
that all was quiet without. There had been no sign of any 
rising of the people, nor any disposition to molest the 
police. Indeed, so peaceful did everything look, and such 
an air of easy indifference pervaded the country, the police 
were half t^sposed to believe that the report of Donogan 
being in the neighborhood was unfounded, and not impos- 
sibly circulated to draw off attention from some other part 
of the country. 

This was also Lord Kilgobbin’s belief. “The man has 
no friends, or even warm followers, down here. It was the 
merest accident first led him to this part of the country, 
where, besides, we are all too poor to be rebels. It ’s only 
down in Meath, where the people are well off, and rents 
are not too high, that people can afford to be Fenians.” 
While he was enunciating this fact to Curtis, they were 
walking up and down the breakfast-room, waiting for the 
appearance of the ladies to make tea. 

“I declare it’s nigh eleven o’clock,” said Curtis, “and I 
meant to have been over two baronies before this hour.” 
“Don’t distress j^ourself, Captain. The man was never 
within fifty miles of where we are. And why would he? 
It is not the Bog of Allen is the place for a revolution.” 
“It’s always the way with the people at the Castle,” 
grumbled out Curtis. “They know more of what ’s going 
on down the country than we that live here! It ’s one de- 
spatch after another. Head-Centre Such-a-one is at the 
' Three Cripples.’ He slept there two nights; he swore in 


NEXT MORNING. 


597 


fifteen men last Saturday, and they ’ll tell you where he 
bought a pair of corduroy breeches, and what he ate for his 
breakfast — ” 

“I wish we had ours,” broke in Kilgobbin. “Where’s 
Kate all this time?” 

“Papa, papa, I want you for a moment; come here to 
me quickly,” cried Kate, whose head appeared fora moment 
at the door. “Here ’s very terrible tidings, papa dearest,” 
said she, as she drew him along towards his study. “Nina 
is gone! Nina has run away! ” 

“Run away for what? ” 

“Run away to be married; and she is married. Read 
this, or J ’ll read it for you. A country boy has just 
brought it from Maryborough.” 

Like a man stunned almost to insensibility, Kearney 
crossed his hands before him, and sat gazing out vacantly 
before him. 

“Can you listen to me, — can you attend to me, dear 
papa?” 

“Go on,” said he, in a faint voice. 

“It is written in a great hurry, and very hard to read. It 
runs thus; ‘ Dearest, — I have no time for explainings nor 
excuses, if I were disposed to make either, and I will con- 
fine myself to a few facts. I was married this morning to 
Donogan, — the rebel ; I know you have added the word, 
and I write it to show how our sentiments are united. As 
people are prone to put into the lottery the number they have 
dreamed of, I have taken my ticket in this greatest of all 
lotteries on the same wise grounds. I have been dreaming 
adventures ever since I was a little child, and it is but 
natural that I marry an adventurer. ’ ” 

A deep groan from the old man made her stop; but as she 
saw that he was not changed in color or feature, she went 
on ; — 

“ ‘He says he loves me very dearly, and that he will treat 
me well. I like to believe both, and I do believe them. 
He says we shall be very poor for the present, but that he 
means to become something or somebodv later on. I do 
not much care for the poverty, if there is hope; and he is a 
man to hope with and to hope from, 


598 


LORD KILGOBBIX. 


“ ‘ You are, in a measure, the cause of all, since it was to 
tell me he would send away all the witnesses against your 
husband, that is to be, that I agreed to meet him, and to 
give me the lease which Miss O’Shea was so rash as to 
place in Gill’s hands. This I now send you.’ ” 

“And this she has sent you, Kate?” asked Kilgobbin. 
“Yes, papa, it is here, and the master of the ‘ Swallow’s ’ 
receipt for Gill as a passenger to Quebec.” 

“Read on.” 

“There is little more, papa, except what I am to say 
to you, — to forgive her.” 

“I can’t forgive her. It was deceit, — cruel deceit.” 

“It was not, papa. I could swear there was no fore- 
thought. If there had been, she w^ould have told me. She 
told me everything. She never loved Walpole; she could 
not love him. She was marrying him with a broken heart. 
It wms not that she loved another, but she knew she could 
have loved another.” 

“Don’t talk such muddle to ??2e,” said he, angrily. “You 
fancy life is to be all courting, but it is n’t. It ’s house- 
rent, and butchers’ bills, and apothecaries’, and the pipe 
water; it’s shoes, and schooling, and arrears of rent, and 
rheumatism, and flannel wmistcoats, and toothache have a 
considerable space in Paradise!” And there wms a grim 
comicality in his utterance of the word. 

“She said no more than the truth of herself,” broke .in 
Kate. “With all her queenly ways, she could face poverty 
bravely; I know it.” 

“So you can, any of }mu, if a man ’s making love to you. 

You care little enough what you eat, and not much more 

what you wear, if he tells you it becomes you; but that’s 

not the poverty that grinds and crushes. It ’s w^hat comes 

home in sickness; it’s w'hat meets you in insolent letters, 

^ / 

in threats of this or menaces of that. But what do 3^011 know 
about it, or why do I speak of it? She ’s married a man that 
could be hanged if the law^ caught him, and for no other 
reason, that I see, than because he ’s a felon.” 

“I don’t think 3^011 are fair to her, papa.” 

“Of course I ’m not. Is it likely that at sixty I can be as 
great a fool as I was at sixteen? ” 


NEXT MORNING. 


599 


“So that means that you once thought in the same way 
that she does? ” 

“I didn’t say any such thing, miss,” said he, angrily. 
“Did you tell Miss Betty what’s happened us? ” 

“I just broke it to her, papa, and she made me run away 
and read the note to you. Perhaps you ’ll come and speak 
to her? ” 

“I will,” said he, rising, and preparing to leave the room. 
“ I ’d rather hear I was a bankrupt this morning than that 
news! ” And he mounted the stairs, sighing heavily as he 
went. 

“Isn’t this fine news the morning has brought us. Miss 
Betty ! ” cried he, as he entered the room with a haggard 
look, and hands clasped before him. “Did you ever dream 
there was such disgrace in store for us?” 

“This marriage you mean,” said the old lady, dryly. 

“Of course I do, — if you call it a marriage at all.” 

“I do call it a marriage; here’s Father Tierney’s certifi- 
cate, a copy made in his own handwriting: ‘ Daniel Dono- 
gau, M.P., of Killamoyle, and Innismul, County Kilkenny, 
to Virginia Kostalergi, of no place in particular, daughter 
of Prince Kostalergi, of the same localities, contracted in 
holy matrimony this morning at six o’clock, and witnessed 
likewise by Morris M‘Cabe, vestry clerk, Mary Kestinogue, 
her mark.’ Do vou want more than that? ” 

“Do I want more? Do I want a respectable wedding? 
Do I want a decent man, — a gentleman, — a man fit to 
maintain her? Is this the way she ought to have behaved? 
Is this what we thought of her? ” 

“It is not. Mat Kearney; you say truth. I never believed 
so well of her till now. I never believed before that she 
had anything in her head but to catch one of those English 
puj)pies, with their soft voices and their sneers about Ire- 
land. I never saw her that she was n’t trying to flatter them, 
and to please them, and to sing them down, as she called it 
herself, — the very name fit for it! And that she had the 
high heart to take a man not only poor, but with a rope 
round his neck, shows me how I wronged her. I could 
give her five thousand this morning to make her a dowry, 
and to prove how I honor her.” 


600 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


“Cau any one tell who he is? What do we know ol 
him? ” 

“All Ireland knows of him; and, after all, Mat Kearney, 
she has only done what her mother did before her.” 

“Poor Matty! ” said Kearney, as he drew his hand across 
his eyes. 

“Aye, aye! Poor Matty, if you like; but Matty was a 
beauty run to seed, and, like the rest of them, she married 
the first good-looking vagabond she saw. Now, this girl 
was in the very height and bloom of her beauty, and she 
took a fellow for other qualities than his whiskers or his 
legs. They tell me he is n’t even well-looking, so that I 
have hopes of her.” 

“Well, well,” said Kearney, “he has done you a good 
turn, anyhow, — he has got Sam Gill out of the country.” 
“And it ’s the one thing that I can’t forgive him. Mat, 
— just the one thing that ’s fretting me now. I was living 
in hopes to see that scoundrel Sam on the table, and Coun- 
sellor Holmes baiting him in a cross-examination. I 
wanted to see how the lawyer would n’t leave him a rag of 
character or a strip of truth to cover himself with. How 
he ’d tear off his evasions, and confront him with his own 
lies, till he wouldn’t know what he was saying or where he 
was sitting! I wanted to hear the description he would give 
of him to the jury; and I’d go home to my dinner after 
that, and not wait for the verdict.” 

“All the same, I ’m glad we ’re rid of Sam.” 

“Of course you are. You ’re a man, and well pleased 
when your enemy runs away; but if you were a woman. 
Mat Kearney, you ’d rather he ’d stand out boldly and meet 
you, and fight his battle to the end. But they have n’t 
done with me yet. I ’ll put that little blackguard attorney, 
that said my letter was a lease, into Chancery; and it will 
go hard with me if I don’t have him struck off the rolls. 
There ’s a small legacy of five hundred pounds left me the 
other day, and, with the blessing of Providence, the Com- 
mon Pleas shall have it. Don’t shake your head. Mat 
Kearney. I’m not robbing anyone. Your daughter will 
have enough and to spare — ” 

“Oh, godmother! ” cried Kate, imploringly. 


NEXT MORNING. 


601 


It was n’t I, my darling, that said the five hundred would 
be better spent on wedding clothes or house-linen. That 
delicate and refined suggestion was your father’s. It was 
his Lordship made the remark.” 

It was a fortunate accident at that conjuncture that a ser- 
vant should announce the arrival of Mr. Flood, the Tory 
J. P., who, hearing of Donogan’s escape, had driven over 
to confer with his brother magistrate. Lord Kilgobbin was 
not sorry to quit the field, where he ’d certainly earned few 
laurels, and hastened down to meet his colleague. 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 


THE END. 

While the two justices and Curtis discussed the unhappy 
condition of Ireland, and deplored the fact that the law- 
breaker never appealed in vain to the sympathies of a people 
whose instincts were adverse to discipline, Flood’s estimate 
of Donogan went very far to reconcile Kilgobbin to Nina’s 
marriage. 

“Out of Ireland, you’ll see that man has stuff in him to 
rise to eminence and station. AH the qualities of which 
home manufacture would only make a rebel will combine to 
form a man of infinite resource and energy in America. 
Have you never imagined, Mr. Kearney, that, if a man 
were to employ the muscular energy to make his way 
through a drawing-room that he would use to force his pas- 
sage through a mob, the effort would be misplaced, and the 
man himself a nuisance? Our old institutions, with all 
their faults, have certain ordinary characteristics that answer 
to good-breeding and good manners, — reverence for author- 
ity, respect for the gradations of rank, dislike to civil con- 
vulsion, and such like. We do not sit tamely by when all 
these are threatened with overthrow ; but there are countries 
where there are fewer of these traditions, and men like 
Donogan find their place there.” 

While they debated such points as these within doors, 
Dick Kearney and Atlee sat on the steps of the hall door, 
and smoked their cigars. 

“I must say, Joe,” said Dick, “that your accustomed 
acuteness cuts but a very poor figure in the present case. 
It was no later than last night you told me that Nina w^as 
madly in love with you. Do you remember, as we went 
upstairs to bed, what you said on the landing? ‘ That girl 


THE END. 


603 


is my own. I may marry her to-morrow, or this day three 
months.’ ” 

“And I was right.” 

“So right were you that she is at this moment the wife of 
another.” 

“And cannot you see why?” 

“I suppose I can; she preferred him to you, and I 
scarcely blame her.” 

“No such thing; there w^as no thought of preference in 
the matter. If you were not one of those fellows who mis- 
take an illustration, and see everything in a figure but the 
parallel, I should say that I had trained too finely. Now', 
had she been thoroughbred, I w^as all right; as a cocktail I 
was all w'rong.” 

“I own I cannot follow' j'ou.” 

“Well, the woman was angry, and she married that fellow 
out of pique.” 

“ Out of pique? ” 

“I repeat it. It was a pure case of temper. I would not 
ask her to sing. I even found fault with the way she gave 
the rebel ballad. I told her there w'as an old lady — Amer- 
icanly speaking — at the corner of College Green, who enun- 
ciated the w'ords better; and then I sat down to whist, and 
would not even vouchsafe a glance in return for those looks 
of alternate rage or languishment she threw across the table. 
She W'as frantic. I saw it. There w'as nothing she would n’t 
have done. I vow she ’d have married even you at that 
moment. And w'ith all that, she ’d not have done it if 
she’d been ‘clean-bred.’ Come, come, don’t flare up and 
look as if you ’d strike me. On the mother’s side she w'as a 
Kearney, and all the blood of loyalty in her veins; but there 
must have been something w'rong with the Prince of Delos. 
Dido was very angry, but her breeding saved her; she 
didn’t take a Head-Centre because she quarrelled with 
^neas.” 

“You are, without exception, the most conceited — ” 

“No, not ass; don’t say ass, for I ’m nothing of the kind. 
Conceited, if you like, or rather, if your natural politeness 
insists on saying it, and cannot distinguish betw'een the van- 
ity of a puppy and the self-consciousness of real power — 


604 


LORD KILGOBBIN. 


But come, tell me of something pleasanter than all this 
personal discussion, — how did Mademoiselle convey her 
tidings? Have you seen her note? Was it ‘transport;’ 
was it high-pitched or apologetic?” 

“Kate read it to me, and I thought it reasonable enough. 
She had done a daring thing, and she knew it; she hoped 
the best, and in any case she was not faint-hearted.” 

“Any mention of me?” 

“Not a word; your name does not occur.” 

“I thought not; she had not pluck for that. Poor girl! 
the blow is heavier than I meant it.” 

“She speaks of Walpole; she encloses a few lines to him, 
and tells my sister where she will find a small packet of 
trinkets and such like he had given her.” 

“Natural enough all that! There was no earthly reason 
why she should n’t be able to talk of Walpole as easily as 
of Colenso or the cattle plague ; but you see she could not 
trust herself to approach my name.” 

“You ’ll provoke me to kick you, Atlee.” 

“In that case I shall sit where I am. But I was soinsf 
to remark that as I shall start for town by the next train, 
and intend to meet Walpole, if your sister desires it, I shall 
have much pleasure in taking charge of that note to his 
address.” 

“All right, I ’ll tell her. I see that she and Miss Betty 
are about to drive over to O'Shea’s Barn, and I ’ll give your 
message at once.” 

While Dick hastened away on his errand, Joe Atlee sat 
alone, musing and thoughtful. I have no reason to presume 
my leader cares for his reflections, nor to know the meaning 
of a stiange smile, half scornful and half sad, that played 
upon his face. At last he rose slowly, and stood looking 
up at the grim old castle, and its quaint blending of 
ancient strength and modern deformity. “Life here, I 
take it, will go on pretty much as before. All the acts of 
this drama will resemble each other; but my own little 
melodrama must open soon. I wonder what sort of house 
there will be for Joe Atlee’s benefit.” 

Atlee was right. Kilgobbin Castle fell back to the ways 
in ’which our first chapter found it, and other interests — 


THE END. 


605 


especially those of Kate’s approaching marriage — soon 
effaced the memory of Nina’s flight and runaway match. 
By that happy law by which the waves of events follow 
and obliterate each other, the present glided back into the 
past, and the past faded till its colors grew uncertain. 

On the second evening after Nina’s departure, Atlee 
stood on the pier of Kingston as the packet drew up at the 
jetty. Walpole saw him, and waved his hand in friendly 
greeting. “What news from Kilgobbin?” cried he, as he 
landed. 

“Nothing very rose-colored,” said Atlee, as he handed 
the note. 

‘‘Is this true?” said Walpole, as a slight tremor shook 
his voice. 

“All true.” 

“Is n’t it Irish, — Irish, the whole of it? ” 

“So they said down there; and, stranger than all, they 
seemed rather proud of it.” 


THE END. 




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